


Clostridium Botulinum

by FoolWhoFollows



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Reverse Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolWhoFollows/pseuds/FoolWhoFollows
Summary: AU ending for the climax of TGG. “That little dizzy spell you had a couple of minutes ago wasn’t just adrenaline, Doctor Watson.” S/J friendship, but could be pre-slash if you like.





	1. Botulism

# Clostridium Botulinum

 

# Chapter 1: Botulism

 

_“I would try to convince you, but everything I could say has already crossed your mind.”_

_“Probably my answer has crossed yours.”_

The pause that followed was unbearably tense as Sherlock’s aim shifted from Moriarty to the bomb that lay between them.

The long, slender white finger tightened infinitesimally on the trigger…

And then Sherlock’s head snapped around at the sound of John’s collapse. The former soldier hit the tiles with an audible thud as he toppled from his crouch against the wall to land face down on the floor.

“John? John!” In an instant, Moriarty was forgotten, the snipers ignored, as Sherlock dropped to his knees beside his friend, reaching for his shoulder to roll him onto his side. The doctor’s features were oddly expressionless; all but his unblinking eyes, staring into Sherlock’s with unmistakable terror.

“John! What’s wrong? Tell me! What’s he done?” Sherlock demanded, feeling panic and fear and deepest blackest guilt rise in his gut like a tide.

“He can’t answer, Sherlock,” Moriarty all but purred. “That little dizzy spell you had a couple of minutes ago wasn’t just adrenaline, Doctor Watson. Light-headedness, dry mouth and throat, all that blinking you did because you could barely keep your eyes open… Facial muscles are always the first to go; then shoulders, arms, legs… and the lungs and diaphragm last. I imagine it’s an unpleasant death, imprisoned in a body that ceases to obey you,” he added casually.

“Clostridium Botulinum…” Sherlock whispered, horrified.

“Well, to be quite accurate, I only had him injected with the toxin produced by the bacteria. I’ve made a lot of progress in my biological warfare since Carl Powers; but when you suggested this pool, I just couldn’t resist.”

“Getting a bit predictable, aren’t you?” The detective sneered. “The same answer, three times in a row?”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it; repetition’s the last thing you’d expect from me.”

“Why go to the trouble? You were going to blow him up anyway.”

“But this way I get to offer you one last puzzle. One chance to save John Watson’s life; which he just offered freely to save you. The one, sole, solitary human life in the world you care for.”

Moriarty’s already inky eyes darkened, glittering coldly in the shifting light. “Your very first mistake.”

“And your very last!” Sherlock yelled, rage suddenly overwhelming him as, in one fluid move, he brought the gun to bear on that sadistic smirk.

“Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock!” Moriarty produced a vial of clear liquid from his Westwood jacket. “Wouldn’t want me to drop the antitoxin on this hard floor, would you? I’d estimate he has three minutes left before he stops breathing; maybe four, at the outside.”

“What do you want?” The words were clipped, jagged with emotion.

“Right now, the price isn’t all that high. All you have to do is get up and walk away.”

“And you really expect me to _trust_ you?”

“My dear Sherlock Holmes… what choice do you have?”

The answer hovered in the charged air between them. _None, that doesn’t involve John’s death._

“If I agree?” Sherlock bit out sharply.

“Johnny here gets to stay with me; and you get to go home to your skull. Don’t worry, I promise I’ll feed him, and walk him, and clean up after him; scout’s honour.” He made a little mock scout salute with his free hand.

Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes flickered from John’s slack features to Moriarty’s smug ones, knowing the consequences of refusal… and knowing that there was only one possible course of action.

He lowered the gun and bent close to whisper a few words into John’s ear. Then the detective straightened his long limbs and rose to his full, imposing height.

“This is not over, Moriarty.”

“I know,” the criminal replied with a grin. “Thrilling, isn’t it? Clock’s ticking.”

Sherlock allowed himself one final glance at his flatmate, lying prone on the floor, and then pocketed the gun, turned crisply on his heel and walked away.

It was probably the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life.

“Toodle-oo, darling!” The criminal crowed, high pitched and playful once more. “I’ll stay in touch… I promise.”

 

The moment Sherlock had stepped through the exterior door into the freezing night air, the deafening explosion behind him knocked him flat on his face.


	2. Concussion

# Chapter 2: Concussion

 

The next thing Sherlock was aware of was the distinctive, universal smell of a hospital. The cheap cotton sheets he lay upon and the faint bustle of activity he could hear in the background confirmed it. The heart monitor he deduced to be well within his normal range, so he couldn’t be that seriously injured; and the blinding pain in his head indicated that either there were drugs involved or he’d been struck. Collecting, collating and analysing his hazy thoughts, Sherlock mentally reconstructed the previous twenty four hours… and bolted upright in one lightning move.

That turned out to be a mistake, as he came extremely close to passing out again. The hellishly brightly lit room spun crazily around him and nausea surged unbearably, black spots marring his vision.

“Jesus Christ!” Lestrade’s familiar voice exclaimed, as a thud and splash indicated he’d dropped his coffee. “That’s the third time you’ve nearly given me a heart attack today! Lie down, for God’s sake.”

Too weak to resist, the burly Inspector’s hands pushed him easily back onto the bed. Closing his useless eyes to focus on his breathing, Sherlock managed – just - to remain conscious. As soon as he felt able to open his mouth without vomiting, he rasped out the question that raged in his scrambled brain.

“John?”

“No, Sherlock, it’s me, Lestrade,” the other man replied, as condescendingly as if he were a distraught toddler asking for mummy.

“I knew that before you opened your mouth, you heavy breathing moron!” The patient snarled hoarsely, wishing his voice didn’t sound so weak. “Where is he? Where is John?”

The pause that followed was excruciatingly long.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Lestrade told him gently, a hint of a choke in his own voice. “We found… there was a body…”

Sherlock’s heart seemed to stall in his chest for one terrifying moment; until it was replaced by an icy certainty.

_No; he wouldn’t have. It’s not logical; he wouldn’t… he’s too useful… Can’t be… Must be a decoy, to slow me down. But Lestrade doesn’t need to know that. He’ll only tell me I’m in denial and then there will be psychologists and doctors and they’ll keep me here when I need to be out looking for John and it will be much easier if I don’t have to break out of the hospital. Besides, if he thinks I’m grief stricken he’ll be much easier to manipulate._

“Has his identity been… confirmed?” He asked, allowing a fake catch to seep into his voice.

“We don’t have a definite ID yet,” The detective was using his ‘talk to the grieving family member’ voice; slow, quiet and soothing. The implication that Sherlock Holmes, of all people, needed to be protected from the facts was infuriating. “The body was badly damaged by the explosion. But… height, weight and colouring are all a good match for John; and you did tell us he was in there…”

“I told you? I don’t remember.”

“Not surprised. You were pretty out of it from that blow to the head. Found you crawling around in the rubble calling John’s name, over and over. Took three of us to drag you to the ambulance; you’ve probably got a few extra bruises.”

“Bruises aren’t important. I’m fine,” Sherlock told him dismissively. “There was only one body?”

“So far, but we’re still sifting through the debris; place was almost flattened. Any idea how many people were in there?”

“A minimum of ten.”

“Ten? Can you identify any of them?”

“John Watson, James Moriarty...”

“He was really there? The psycho behind all of this?”

“Of course he was. I invited him. I can give you an accurate description but I doubt it will come in useful. Didn’t see the others; sorry.”

“Well, if you didn’t see them, how’d you know…”

“Laser sights, Detective Inspector,” a warm, cultured tenor replied, rolling through the sterile air. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he struggled weakly up onto his elbows as it continued. “Four on John, four on Sherlock; and therefore eight snipers.” He offered Lestrade a hand. “Mycroft Holmes. We have met before, but it was some years ago.”

“I remember,” Lestrade replied, tone suggesting it was a meeting he was never likely to forget.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded petulantly.

“Merely to enquire after your health, Sherlock; that is what families do, after all. And also to offer my _deepest_ condolences for your loss. Doctor Watson was an admirable man…”

To anyone else, his sympathy would have appeared genuine; but Sherlock knew his sibling better. _Obviously, Mycroft has deduced exactly what’s going on, as usual, and wants to offer his own unique brand of assistance. In the most irritating way possible._

He interrupted venomously. “I am _fine_. You’ve seen I’m fine; fraternal duties dispensed. You can leave now.”

“If you could see your face, you would not be so generous in your self- diagnosis, dear brother,” the elder Holmes chided. “Besides the concussion, the cuts and bruises, the three stitches in your right temple, and the red rimmed eyes; you are aware that while under great stress, you develop a minor muscle spasm in your left cheek?”

“Yes, I am _perfectly_ aware of that,” Sherlock snapped, equally conscious that that small tell had been endlessly amusing to Moriarty. “Now get out, before I do something you’ll regret.”

“As you wish. I only wanted to express my concern; you know how I worry about you.” He reached into the pocket of his immaculately tailored suit and produced a card, which he handed to a surprised Lestrade.

“Contact details for Harriet Watson. I am certain she would want to have the earliest possible information about her brother; I know I would, in her position.”

“Thank you,” the surprised inspector replied.

“I shall contact you again when your nerves have recovered, Sherlock.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Oh, I always bother with my baby brother. Good day, Inspector; and Sherlock, do get well soon.”

As soon as the tap of his umbrella had vanished down the corridor, Lestrade couldn’t help but comment.

“If that’s how you two get on at a time like this, I’m bloody glad you’re not my kids. He was only trying to help, Sherlock.”

“You don’t know Mycroft like I do,” the detective said darkly. “I can tell when he’s lying.”

“And how’s that?”

“He opens his mouth. My brother doesn’t run the British Government for nothing.”

“But surely, you’re going to need all the help you can get to catch this Moriarty character, Sherlock.” Lestrade leaned forwards earnestly. “If there’s anything I can do, whatever you need, I’m going to help you catch this arsehole. Anything at all.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Because John Watson was a decent bloke and he didn’t deserve to die like this!”

“You’re a policeman; you should know by now that people rarely get what they deserve. The old lady and all those other people in the flats probably didn’t deserve to be blown up. What difference does it make that you had personally met John? You weren’t friends; just casual acquaintances. Surely his death cannot mean more to you than anyone else’s?”

“‘Course it does!” Lestrade protested in frustration. “You can’t tell me you don’t care that John’s dead, Sherlock; I saw your face at the scene.”

_Yes. I care._ _If I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been there._

“My uncharacteristic emotional response is no reason for you declare war on someone as dangerous as Moriarty.”

“You really don’t understand people at all, do you? John might not have been my friend, but he was _yours;_ he made you better; made you _happy_. And this bastard just took all that away. Why wouldn’t I want to go after him?”

_Because he will destroy you. There is no point in your getting involved; it will only make you a target,_ _as John is. And you do not deserve that any more than he does._

“Because Jim Moriarty is everything that Sally thinks I am.”

“But you’re _not_ like that,” the DI argued vehemently. “You don’t go around blowing up strangers for fun; you’re not like him. He’s just like… some kind of twisted reflection, like seeing yourself in one of those warped fairground mirrors.”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock answered distantly, gaze fixed unblinking on the ceiling. “I assure you, the mirror is quite undistorted.”

“Moriarty bloody well will be, when I’m finished with him. C’mon, then, tell me everything that happened; everything you’ve deduced. What’s his next move?”

_Probably a long silence and then a few taunts; he’ll update John’s blog, or send me photos, or maybe some kind of challenge. Then he’ll get bored and move on to more aggressive tactics. Torture possibly. Using John to make me follow his orders. To prove that his way is better than mine._

“I don’t know,” Sherlock lied. “But I know what ours is. Have you got my phone?”

“Yours, yes,” he confirmed, handing it over. “But the pink one’s evidence; it’s being pulled apart by the lab boys.”

“Waste of time. They won’t find anything. I need to send a text; you can make your call from outside.”

“Me? Who am I calling?”

“Harry. They weren’t close, but she needs to be told.”

As soon as Lestrade had left the room, muttering pointless ‘comforting’ platitudes, Sherlock selected John’s mobile number and tapped in the message:

**I want proof of life and I want it now. SH**


	3. Paralysis

# Chapter 3: Paralysis

 

It is said that doctors make the worst patients. In the case of John Watson, that saying was more than accurate.

The former soldier hadn’t moved an inch of his own volition since his collapse in the swimming pool. He couldn’t even blink as Moriarty made his ultimatum; as he watched his best friend abandon him in order to save his life.

Had John been capable of speech at that point, he would have been shouting.

_Don’t listen to him, Sherlock, you total bloody idiot! Get out of here and forget about me; I’ve been dead since I got into that bloody cab!_

But something deep inside John Watson, some primal instinct or intuition that had trusted Sherlock Holmes from the first moment they met, knew that there was no way his flatmate would do the sensible thing. Since he’d joined the army, that same instinct had saved his life more than once; it had also labelled fewer and fewer people trustworthy over the years. But one glimpse of pale eyes that missed nothing and John was handing over his only truly valuable possession to a total stranger. His therapist had been only partially right about his trust issues; he’d never for one moment trusted her, but he did trust Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, that trust was far from being reciprocated. Sherlock had let him go out for a nice evening with his girlfriend while arranging to meet a criminal mastermind with a nasty habit of blowing people up. He’d tried to protect John by excluding him; and if there was one thing the adrenaline junkie former soldier loathed, it was being protected.

He’d had plenty of time to mentally compose the rant he intended to give Sherlock on the subject when he next saw him as he lay paralysed, unable to move even his eyelids.

The moment the door closed behind the young detective Moriarty’s people had come scurrying out of the woodwork with medical equipment and a stretcher. One of the more considerate – or possibly security-minded – men had stroked his dry and burning eyes closed even as he was whisked away.

Then, while he was being loaded hurriedly into the ambulance waiting for him, he heard the explosion. For a good minute, the only thought that registered in his mind sounded a lot like _SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock_

And then common sense kicked in; Moriarty’s only interest in John Watson was as leverage against Sherlock Holmes. If his enemy were dead, the consulting criminal wouldn’t be bothering to take a mere army doctor hostage; most likely he’d have ordered them to dump him in an alley somewhere to let the poison could do its work.

Still, the worry that gnawed at him refused to abate. His flatmate was not known for looking after himself; if he were injured, he’d ignore it and come chasing after Moriarty anyway. John could just picture Sherlock dismissing stitches or a broken bone as ‘boring’ and carrying on as normal. Well, normal for Sherlock, anyway.

The journey had seemed interminably long; although that was almost certainly just his own perception. The medics had intubated him and the hard plastic tube in his throat was not helping his thought processes, although it definitely was helping his breathing.

Finally, he’d been transferred into a building and placed into a hospital bed. He mentally gave the staff marks out of ten as they hooked him up to a pulse-ox meter, attached an IV drip and connected him to a respirator.

_Eight and a half, on average. At least Moriarty employs competent henchmen._

John knew his attempts at distracting himself from the terrifying, disorientating blackness behind his immobilised eyelids weren’t going to work for long. He was concentrating on his other senses as much as possible, but there was no substitute for actually being able to see the world around him. The scent of hospital strength disinfectant was heavy on the air; this place had been sterilised recently. It was too quiet to be a normal hospital; John’s money was on either a private clinic or some special medical facility Moriarty had set up just for him. He’d been mostly left alone in the intolerable hours since his admission, which suggested the latter; only one quick, professional nurse checking up on him at regular intervals.

The thought had occurred that he had been spending entirely too much time with Sherlock lately.

The helplessness of his situation burned, though. To not be able to speak, or move or even open his eyes was unbearable. It gave him a new sympathy for his flatmate’s ‘bored’ spells. His mind was whirling, but there was nothing to do with it, nothing to focus on… except…

The words whispered into his ear as he lay on the cold tiles at the poolside were haunting him.

Sherlock had declared the previous day that he didn’t care about the hostages; all that mattered to him was winning the game, defeating his opponent. He’d claimed that caring about people was a mistake that only would only get in his way. The soldier in John almost agreed; but he was a doctor first, and always would be. The thought of just… not caring… that another human being was in danger or pain, physical or emotional, made him sick to his stomach.

The disconnection from the world Sherlock displayed could be almost frightening. Perhaps because he was so much more intelligent than those around him, he’d never truly learned to empathise with them, to understand that they were real people, not walking puzzles murdering one another for his amusement.

And then, in that last critical moment, he’d leaned down and whispered.

_“That mistake we discussed earlier? I’m making it now.”_

Sherlock cared about him; ordinary, normal, average, idiot John Watson. And, even more surprisingly, he’d actually told him so. It was… flattering, in a warm, embarrassed sort of way. He felt rather proud to have created affection in a self- professed sociopath.

It was also the single most terrifying thing that had ever been said to him; which was an achievement, considering. Very few sentences could compare to, “ _Get down! Sniper!”_ or the frantic cry of “ _Medic!”_ in the wake of a bomb blast.

This was different, though. Rather than the hot, adrenaline-laced fear of imminent death (his own or his patient’s), John felt filled with ice. The doctor was scared to his very bones of what his friend would be prepared to do in order to keep him alive. He had no doubt Moriarty would demand some form of ransom; and anyone twisted enough to strap a bomb to a child… Well. The price he would ask was beyond John’s limited deductive skills.

_Would Sherlock hurt people for me? Steal for me? Kill for me? Surely he’s clever enough to realise I’m not worth it… but he does care this time. He’s not used to caring. Could he really distance himself from emotions he claims not to feel? Enough to make the right decisions, to be a good man as well as a great one? Could I live with myself if he doesn’t? If he chooses me over someone else?_

The questions churned in his brain, a more effective torture than any amount of physical discomfort. And worst of all, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

And then Jim Moriarty all but skipped into the room like a three year old on Christmas morning, crowing excitedly. “Wakey wakey, Johnny boy!”

The hateful voice alone was enough to make John want to throttle the man. Soft, manicured fingers prised up one reluctant eyelid and pain lanced into John’s skull as his iris sought sluggishly to contract against the sudden influx of light.

A mobile phone was waved triumphantly before his one open eye.

“Finally! A message from Sherlock; it feels like I’ve been waiting forever. That concussion he got from the explosion must’ve been worse than I thought.”

_Damn it! Just when he needs a bloody doctor, I’m stuck here in a hospital bed listening to this nutter._

“I just knew you’d be as excited to hear from him as I am,” he trilled, like a teenage girl. “Shame the message is so predictable. **‘I want proof of life and I want** **it now.’** Well, _duh_. Obvious. I think he deserves to be punished for that, don’t you?”

John wished urgently that he could point out the futility of asking questions to a paralysed captive with a respirator tube stuck down his throat.

“How about…” Moriarty turned the phone around and began to tap out a reply, reading it out as he typed. “ **Patience, my dear. It can take ten days to get over a concussion. Take it easy until then and we’ll see. M** … and… send. There; that should teach him a few manners, shouldn’t it, Doctor? Ten days of boredom for a mind like Sherlock Holmes must feel like a life sentence.”

Unfortunately, having been on the receiving end of some of Sherlock’s experiments, John couldn’t help but agree. To Sherlock, there was nothing worse than boredom. And then his now watering eye spotted a familiar engraving on the back of the mobile in Moriarty’s hand.

_Wait a minute, that’s my bloody phone! Talk about adding insult to injury; I’m going to have to pay for this psycho to text my own bloody ransom demands! That’s it; strangulation’s too good for him. I’m going to dismember the bastard and let Sherlock experiment on his body parts!_

The mobile in question beeped a text alert, loud and slightly echoing in the quiet room.

“Ooh; that was quick,” the consulting criminal exclaimed, opening the message. “Must have him all riled up; I love it when that happens. ‘ **Not good enough! SH.’** Exclamation mark in a text, that’s never a good sign. And so rude, too; time for a little threat, I think. Let’s go with… **Then I suppose I’ll have to turn off the respirator and put your little dog out of his misery. Shame. M.”**

Moriarty leaned close, whispering conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, though, Doctor Watson; I wouldn’t kill you quite yet. We’re only just starting the next phase of the game.”

Staring into the dark eyes that hovered mere inches from his own, John could physically see the insanity dancing in them. He was actually relieved when the next text distracted his captor.

“ **You won’t do that. He’s too useful. SH.** Well, he may be right, but dear Sherlock doesn’t need to know that, does he?” The unconcealed glee on Moriarty’s face made it disturbingly childlike. John was reminded inescapably of his flatmate at a crime scene; the comparison made him nauseous. He struggled to close his blurred and furiously watering eye. Even the blackness was better than watching Moriarty text death threats with that joyous, agonisingly familiar _Sherlock_ expression on his face.

John cursed his treacherous muscles as they refused to obey him.

“ **Not if you’re not going to play along. Be a good boy and do nothing at all for the next ten days and maybe JW will be alive at the end of it. No cheating. M.”**

“D’you think I was too cruel?” The criminal asked, almost… nervously. “I don’t want to scare him off, and he does seem very attached to you, for some reason. Maybe a picture would cheer him up a little. You just look so adorably pathetic lying there winking at the world.” He held up the phone and took a photo.

The click felt louder than it should have as Moriarty sent the picture.

He pocketed John’s phone and then reached out to stroke his eye closed again. The former soldier was quite glad he was incapable of flinching at the touch.

“They say a picture is worth a thousand words,” he all but purred. “It’s certainly worth more than a text message. Ciao for now, Johnny.”

And then he was gone, and John was left alone with the blackness.


	4. Hypothermia

# Chapter 4: Hypothermia

 

Every pixel of that photograph felt like it had been burned indelibly into Sherlock’s retinas within a second of opening Moriarty’s message. The image overlaid the world like a filter; having his eyes open or closed made no difference.

Sherlock lay passively, staring at a wall he could not see as a steady stream of hospital staff and patients bustled industriously and obliviously along the corridor. Occasionally a nurse would step in to bring a meal or check he hadn’t slipped into a coma; but he ignored them as much as possible. There was only one medical professional he wanted to see; and his face was in the room already.

_As always; humanity in the corridor, so busy in their humdrum little lives, and me in a little room to the side, alone with my own mind. The familiarity is almost soothing._

_Except John should be in here with me, not miles away with only Moriarty for company._

The picture had been taken from above; just head and shoulders, on a backdrop of crisp white pillows. The angle had been perfectly chosen to reveal no other information about where the captive was being held other than that it was a medical facility; which was already so obvious it was not even worthy of being called a deduction.

John’s features were still emotionless, his muscles immobilised by the poison. Even if they hadn’t been, the intrusive breathing mask keeping him alive covered most of his face. His right eye was open, but the left remained closed in a bizarre parody of a wink.

_Doubtless, the implication appeals to Moriarty’s sense of humour._

The single warm blue eye stared without expression into the lens, despite the fact John had to be looking right into the face of someone he loathed. In fact, it was most likely Moriarty himself; he’d enjoy flaunting his control of the situation, causing John further distress while he boasted of his cleverness.

The pupil was excessively dilated considering the light level in the room, which meant that not even the muscles that controlled the contraction of the iris were working properly. That also explained the lone shining tear track that hugged the curve of John’s right cheek. Sherlock found it the most disturbing aspect of the picture; to know that John was so helpless, so utterly incapable of defending himself that he could not even blink his watering eye. If Moriarty chose to pick up a scalpel and carve his initials into the tough Afghanistan veteran’s flesh, he wouldn’t even be able to scream.

_Not that John would let him have the satisfaction; he’d paralyse his own larynx first._

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Lestrade returned to the hospital the following day to give Sherlock a lift home. Well, to Baker Street, anyway; somehow the flat felt… colder than it used to.

The long-suffering Inspector was clearly astonished that Sherlock had acquiesced to staying overnight for observation without a fuss; he hadn’t even given the nurses trouble. It had nothing to do with not wanting to go home to an empty flat, though, as he was bound to assume. No, certainly not; that would be unforgivably sentimental. He was merely following Moriarty’s instructions to overcome his injuries as quickly as possible; and besides, it was quieter in the hospital, away from the builders repairing the bomb damage.

The detective could hear power tools in operation across the street from the sofa. He shivered suddenly; although Mrs Hudson always had the central heating on to ease her hip.

_The windows have been replaced; it shouldn’t be cold in here,_ he thought absently _. Agh, temperature is unimportant._

Lestrade had been alone, driving his wife’s slightly battered Golf, and awkwardly silent; something Sherlock distantly appreciated even as his considerable intellect gnawed and churned over everything he knew about Moriarty. Mrs Hudson crying as she met him at the door had been rather more difficult.

“Oh, Sherlock, sweetheart…” She managed to choke out, drawing him in for a long hug as her tears damped the ill-fitting scrubs the hospital had sent him home in.

He told himself the reason he didn’t mind the unfamiliar human contact was because he was distracted; it had nothing at all to do with the warmth of her fragile arms around him.

Predictably, the first thing his maternal landlady did was make him a cup of tea and reheat some home-made soup. He found himself on the sofa with a tray perched on his lap before he quite knew what was going on.

“For the shock, love,” she insisted. “And I know what that hospital food is like; you’ve got to look after yourself, you know, or you’ll make yourself ill…” her voice trembled and broke. “John wouldn’t have wanted that.” She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and pressed it over her face.

Something that was most assuredly not guilt or sympathy stirred the conscience Sherlock didn’t have (which sounded very similar to John when he pointed out his friend’s tactlessness). It seemed to please Mrs Hudson to look after him, so he picked up the spoon and choked down a mouthful for her benefit.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said dutifully, and was rewarded with a watery smile.

“You’re very welcome, dear; it’s my mother’s recipe. She always made it when I was ill or upset; and I needed something to do last night, after that nice policeman told me…” She faltered, and then started again with forced cheer. “Would you like anything else? Some toast or a sandwich to go with it? I’ve got some nice thick cut ham in…”

“No, thank you. I’m… fine.”

“Of course you aren’t, dear,” she told him gently, reaching out to stroke his perpetually tousled curls. “But you will be. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but everything’s going to be all right.”

_Yes. Everything will be all right. When Moriarty is dead and John is back in his armchair where he belongs, complaining about my latest experiment._

Apparently the slight smile this image caused was reassuring, because Mrs Hudson left him alone a few minutes later to ‘get a few things done; it always helps to keep yourself busy.’

As soon as she was gone, he took the soup into the kitchen and poured most of it down the sink, followed by the tea. He’d done the same in the hospital; hadn’t even had the energy to dissect the more questionable items on his plate before he got rid of them.

Sherlock leaned heavily on the edge of the sink as he ran the tap to rinse it out, his mind a thousand miles away.

_Ten days. He really thinks I can sit here and not chase him for_ ten days _when he’s holding John prisoner and it’s all I can do not to go out and search every building in London myself. I can’t wait; I can’t stagnate like this. I’ve already gone over everything I know about him a thousand times in my mind in the hospital and I don’t dare try to do any research or legwork because he’s much too clever to let me get away with it. If I work to find John, John dies. If I don’t, I will undoubtedly go quite, quite mad; and be of no use to him anyway._

_Burn the heart out of me, indeed, Jim._

_There is only one possible solution. John would tear me limb from limb if he knew I was so much as contemplating this; but there is simply no alternative._

Sherlock shut off the water and abandoned mug and bowl on the draining board, turning to the carefully arranged chemistry set on the table. He selected one unmarked test tube filled with amber fluid and unscrewed the clamp that held it in place.

_Fortunately, Lestrade’s morons are too stupid to consider I might hide my stash in plain sight. Drugs bust, indeed; it was sitting on the table in front of them the whole time they were searching._

It was the work of a moment to retrieve a syringe and tourniquet from the hidden compartment under the cutlery drawer and then he was sitting back on the sofa, the routine so familiar…

As the cold liquid entered his vein, Sherlock couldn’t contain another shiver. So cold… cold inside…

He spotted a shapeless beige heap in the corner and retrieved it while his legs were still co-operative.

_John’s jumper… yes, that’s right; he spilled coffee down it the day before Moriarty’s first bombing and then he must have forgotten to take it upstairs after the case started… it still smells like him. Hmmm… helps with the cold…_

When Mrs Hudson looked in to ask what Sherlock wanted for dinner, she found him curled up on the sofa, apparently fast asleep, clutching the garment like a child with a security blanket.

_Ahh, look at him; he looks so peaceful. Best to let him sleep; he’s had such a difficult time lately. I’ll do beef stew and dumplings; that’ll reheat easily enough when he wakes up._

She crept back to her own flat, making as little sound as possible; unaware that a herd of stampeding elephants would be incapable of rousing the comatose young detective.


	5. Anxiety

# Chapter 5: Anxiety

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade prided himself on being a solid, sensible, dependable sort of bloke. He might not be brilliantly clever or exciting but he worked hard and kept his head in a crisis. Those qualities had got him his promotion to Inspector; but he was well aware that if he wanted to advance any further in the Met he’d need an ace up his sleeve. That ace was Sherlock Holmes.

 _God help me. My daughters are more mature than him and they’re teenagers who spend days on end fighting over_ shoes _._

The current situation certainly qualified as a crisis.

The investigation into the bombings (chaotic, full of gaps and rapidly becoming far too political for his taste) was the least of his problems. It was Sherlock that worried him. In the five years he’d known the man, Lestrade had never encountered anyone who was willing to associate with him on a regular basis without desperate need of his unique skills. And then suddenly John Watson started tagging along to crime scenes.

Even more bafflingly, Sherlock actually enjoyed John’s company. They seemed to spend all of their time together, between sharing a flat and working on cases. How the doctor could stand it without cracking was a mystery. Then again, Sherlock did treat him differently to everyone else; he barely insulted John at all, at least in Lestrade’s hearing. He listened to everything the shorter man had to say as if it really interested him. They shared private jokes and casual bickering like they’d been doing it all their lives.

More than once, he’d wondered if they actually were just flatmates or if one of them (presumably John, having been in the army) was just in the closet. Every time, he concluded very quickly that he didn’t want to know.

 _It’s not the idea of two men sleeping together that bothers me; it’s the idea of_ Sherlock _sleeping with_ anyone _… that’s got to be against some kind of fundamental law of nature…_

Whatever their relationship, Sherlock changed when John was around. Lestrade hadn’t lied to him in the hospital; it was obvious that he was happier, more comfortable around people. It was like John acted as a buffer against the rest of the world, keeping the sociopath isolated even as he helped him communicate with others. Sherlock still didn’t show anything in the way of compassion or empathy; but at least there was someone around to tell him off for being insensitive that he would actually listen to. God knew Lestrade himself had tried enough times before giving up in despair.

_And then this accursed case came along, designed specifically to attract Sherlock’s attention and frankly way over everyone else’s heads, mine and John’s included._

When he saw the post about the Bruce-Partington plans on Sherlock’s website, it took an embarrassingly long time to work out where ‘the pool’ referred to. Lestrade arrived at quarter past twelve to a building that was already mostly rubble.

It was a terrifying sight.

 _If Sherlock was in there… Surely, he can’t be… not_ Sherlock _… he’s too clever… isn’t he?_

Only a couple of patrol cars and a single ambulance had beaten the Detective Inspector to the scene. On automatic pilot, he’d mucked in and taken charge, organising the myriad of emergency services arriving to get the site secured.

He looked up from waving another ambulance towards an appropriate parking space when he heard a very familiar voice from the collapsed building.

And then Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed to take a brief holiday as plain old Greg grabbed a torch and shouted at the nearest paramedics to follow him before running towards the source of the sound, relief overflowing in his chest.

Sherlock Holmes, usually so neat and elegant in his sharp suits, was on his hands and knees amid the broken breeze blocks and shattered roof tiles. He was caked in grey dust from head to toe like an extremely cheap b-movie ghost. The only colour remaining was in the blood that stained his torn clothes and flowed freely down the side of his face. He crawled determinedly through the detritus as if searching for something, heedless of the new injuries he had to be inflicting on himself.

“Sherlock?” Greg managed, almost unable to believe this was the same arrogant, aloof bastard he’d been working with all these years.

And then the young detective looked up and Lestrade saw his expression.

The usually cold blue eyes were red-rimmed and fever bright. More disturbing were the unmistakable tear tracks that had carved their way through the blood and grime coated on his cheeks.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said hoarsely, sounding disappointed. “Where’s John?”

“Sherlock… What happened? Are you all right?”

“Moriarty happened,” he replied matter of factly. “Things blew up. Have you seen John?”

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock, I had worked that one out for myself,” he snapped. And then the realisation of what the detective was looking for among the rubble hit Greg like a ton of… well, bricks. Or rather, _who_ he was looking for.

“Jesus Christ; was John in there with you?” He breathed, shock and guilt replacing irritated relief in a heartbeat.

 _He never even crossed my mind. I knew Sherlock would be here and I know John follows him everywhere but I never even_ thought _… I_ forgot _about him…_

“He’s here somewhere…” Sherlock muttered, casting about in the debris like a trained dog. “Need to find him. Got to tell him about the poison and the lark. John!”

“The poison and the what? You’re not making any sense; c’mon, you’re going to hospital.”

“Why? John’s a perfectly good doctor and I know he’s here… John! John, tell him I don’t need the hospital! Molly’s not working tonight and I won’t be allowed to play with the corpses! John!”

It took not just Lestrade but both of the paramedics as well to drag Sherlock to the ambulance, shouting and struggling all the way. By the time they’d got him wrestled into the restraints and dosed with the strongest sedative they dared give a suspected concussion patient the scene was overrun with police, firefighters and paramedics. The first paparazzi were beginning to circle the perimeter like vultures.

It took a while, but Lestrade managed to organise a search for John Watson by dint of a lot of badge waving and even more shouting.

_I mean, Sherlock made it out with just a bump on the head; and John’s the tough sort, he survived Afghanistan… and the kitchen at Baker Street, which is probably just as dangerous. There’s no reason he couldn’t live through this too…_

And then one of the firemen came across the crushed body of a shortish, stocky man with fair, greying hair, still visible despite the blood that had seeped from his shattered skull.

_Oh god… How am I going to tell him?_

Lestrade broke the news as gently as he could; and watched more emotion than he’d seen in the past five years put together flicker across Sherlock’s face in a split second. He covered it again almost immediately, but it was obvious how affected he was. The statement he’d given had been dry and factual, bereft of the usual deductions and leaps of logic. His mind seemed a thousand miles away, voice distant and clearly wishing only to be left alone.

From the driven, energetic, eccentric Sherlock Holmes he knew, this was more disturbing than screaming and shouting. Even scarier, he’d actually agreed to remain in hospital for observation, instead of leaving as soon as he was conscious to pursue the case as he usually did.

Greg arranged for one of the nurses to phone him when they were ready to release Sherlock so he could drive him home. It wasn’t like there was anyone else to do it, judging from the row he’d had with his brother. He hoped the younger man would appreciate the gesture of support, especially since he was careful not to press for conversation in the car.

After leaving him in the capable hands of Mrs Hudson, Lestrade returned to the Yard for a couple of hours to give Sherlock some space before collecting Donovan and heading back to Baker Street. He needed answers, and there was only one man who could provide them.

“Where are we going, sir?” Sally asked from the passenger seat, although it was clear she already suspected.

“Baker street,” Lestrade confirmed shortly.

“You’re taking me to see the freak! Are we looking for drugs again?”

“No, of course not. And can you not call him that for one day, please? His best mate’s just been blown up, for God’s sake.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have _mates_ ,” she said, her lip twisting at the very idea.

“No; he just had John, who’s the only person who ever managed to put up with him voluntarily.”

“And look what happened to him.”

“Exactly. You didn’t get to the pool crime scene until after Sherlock was carted off in the ambulance, Donovan. He looked… human.”

“Then he was faking,” she said firmly. “Can’t you see it? This whole case has been about the freak; how d’we know it’s not because this mysterious ‘Moriarty’ doesn’t really exist, and it’s all a big game so he can get off on watching us tell him how clever he is?”

“Because if he already knew the answers to those puzzles, the game would’ve been boring to him. Sherlock doesn’t care about what any of us think, Donovan; you should’ve worked that one out by now. All he cares about is the challenge of solving the case.”

“Because he’s a sodding psycho!” Sally exclaimed. “I warned John about him; I warned and warned and warned. He never took any notice and now he’s dead because his mental flatmate was bored!”

“And that didn’t tell you anything? I did my research on Doctor Watson; he wasn’t just some bloke Sherlock bumped into on the street.”

“Let me guess; he was a doctor of psychology too?”

“He was a soldier. A war hero; Iraq and Afghanistan. Got shot and pensioned off. The danger didn’t bother him; he was used to being under fire. He just liked Sherlock.”

“Then clearly, he had mental problems.”

“Plenty of ex-squaddies do. But he was a good man, and Sherlock did like him, so you are going to be nice if it kills you, understood?” The threat was unmistakable.

Sally muttered something vaguely affirmative and followed Lestrade out of the car without a word, although she looked distinctly unhappy about it.

Mrs Hudson let them in, red eyed and distraught, with offers of tea and biscuits.

“Sherlock was having a nap on the sofa earlier,” she told them. “I’ve been doing my best to look after the poor dear; he’s not at all himself… They were so very close…” She swallowed heavily. “I’ll just go and see about that tea. Don’t you go upsetting him, now,” she warned, giving Donovan a look that clearly meant ‘or else’.

The great Detective hadn’t moved an inch. The sight tugged at Greg’s heartstrings.

_He looks like a child, all curled up under his blanket… is that one of John’s jumpers?_

Sally lingered grumpily by the doorway as Lestrade negotiated the minefield of Sherlock and John’s living room floor, calling the surviving flatmate’s name softly.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up.” He shook one bony shoulder gently; and the fabric shifted to reveal the fresh trackmark on the inside of his arm.

_Oh God why did I leave him? I knew he wasn’t right but he told me he was clean; how could the selfish bastard possibly be so stupid? He’s taken too much, I know it’s too much, I’ve seen enough dead junkies to know and bloody hell Sherlock, John would kill you for this!_

“Christ! He’s overdosed; Donovan, ambulance, now! Sherlock! Can you hear me?”

Lestrade refused to notice the way his fingers trembled as he pressed them into the slender throat, searching for a pulse. For one terrifying moment, he couldn’t find one…

And then there it was, weak and thready and not at all how a pulse should feel, but there nonetheless.

“Sir?” Sally asked uncertainly. “Is he…”

“He’s alive; but tell them to get a bloody move on. C’mon; help me get him into the recovery position.”

Just as the ambulance siren became audible, Donovan swallowed hard and asked the question she knew her boss didn’t want to think about.

“D’you think it was deliberate? Did he try to…”

The helpless, haunted look he gave her over the barely breathing form of Sherlock Holmes answered more truthfully than any words.

_I don’t know._

Sally took pity on him. “I’ll go and guide the paramedics in,” she said, heading for the stairs.


	6. Overdose

# Chapter 6: Overdose

 

Sherlock Holmes awoke gradually, aware only peripherally of the world around him. He felt warm, comfortable; his thoughts sluggish enough that he didn’t care where he was or what could be deduced from his environment. For the Consulting Detective, this was a rare state, to be cherished for as long as possible.

Which made the intruding voice of his sibling even more irritating than usual.

“Good morning, Sherlock.”

“Urgh…” He groaned, cuddling down into his blankets. “Go ‘way, Mycroft…”

“I see your recent near death experience has not affected your charm, dear brother.”

Resigned to the fact that Mycroft was not going away, Sherlock’s brain began to come back online. The first thing it encountered when running start-up procedures was an immense headache and some residual nausea. The bed was not his own; and the cheap cotton and chemical aroma gave away his location as a hospital. Logically, it associated these symptoms with the last time he had awoken like this and reset the system to the same time frame.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, I was barely injured.” He grumbled, still refusing to open his eyes.

“I was not referring to the pool incident; although for future reference, I would prefer that you left considerably longer gaps between your hospital admissions.” There was definite bite in the words. “Do you remember the events that led you here, or are you having blackouts again?”

“Blackouts? Don’t be…” And then the memories re-emerged, flashing across his closed eyelids like watching telly.

_Moriarty John photo Mrs Hudson sofa syringe cold nothing…_

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open; even looking at Mycroft was better than that. “Oh.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? Oh? After Detective Inspector Lestrade found you unconscious and barely breathing, with enough highly illegal substances in your veins to stop a rampaging rhinoceros?”

The irritation in his voice was obvious. Even his usually meticulous appearance was very slightly dishevelled; a few creases in his jacket, a hair or two out of place. By Mycroft’s near obsessive-compulsive standards, he might as well have been sitting there in his pyjamas with his hair standing on end rather than neatly turned out in an expensive three-piece suit.

_That means he’s either apoplectically angry or… worried. Or perhaps a little of both._

_I must have been close to death, then, I suppose. Most peculiar; I didn’t take any more than my normal dose, and I haven’t had time to experiment with the formula recently. Perhaps because it was a relatively old batch, some evaporation had occurred, increasing the concentration of the suspension? Or I suppose it could have been contaminated… Must do some further investigations later._

“You’re exaggerating,” he said aloud. “I always calculate the dosage precisely to my bodyweight.”

“And of course, you factored in the lingering symptoms of your concussion? Your recent holiday from your preferred chemical stimuli? Not to mention the fact that you haven’t eaten or slept in almost a week.”

Sherlock opened his mouth but Mycroft didn’t allow him to interrupt. “And no, being unconscious does not count. If you had not been found when you were, doubtless I would be arranging your funeral by now, as Harriet Watson is for John.”

“Don’t you bring John into this,” Sherlock snapped, the photograph still far too clear in his mind’s eye. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You expect me to believe the loss of your closest- and indeed only- companion had no relation to your sudden return to your old habits? Lestrade told me you were found curled up on the sofa with one of his jumpers.”

Sherlock was humiliated to realise that there was a lump rising in his throat. He forced his eyes away from his brother. “His things are still all over the flat,” he explained flatly. “I was cold.”

“They all think this was a suicide attempt, you know.”

“Oh, _don’t_ tell me _you_ believe _that_ ,” Sherlock spat out in disgust.

 _Suicide? Because I made a slight miscalculation? When I had John’s gun and a whole kitchen full of exotic poisons at my disposal, they really think I could attempt to kill myself and_ fail _? The idea would be an insult to_ Anderson’s _intelligence, if it can be described as such._

“I don’t, no. But then, I know you well enough to know if you ever did seriously attempt such a thing, you would succeed. No, this was merely you being your usual reckless, foolish self.” He shifted in the uncomfortable hospital chair, as if only just becoming aware that he was leaning forwards towards his brother’s bed. Usual laconic posture regained, he narrowed his eyes and continued.

“What I do wonder, however, is why. John has been murdered. I would expect you to be rabidly obsessive in your pursuit of this… Moriarty. Your depression and uncharacteristic lethargy in the face of a puzzle I confess, I find rather disturbing.”

Sherlock was silent.

_I was wrong. Mycroft hasn’t worked it out; or maybe he has, and he wants me to think he hasn’t… I wish my brain would work properly around this massive headache…_

“You remember, I trust, what I told you last time.”

The patient’s pale eyes blazed suddenly. “No! You’re not packing me off to some obscenely expensive rehab centre to have me ‘cured’! I’ll break out within twenty-four hours!”

“And you’d prefer I allow you to kill yourself in a bout of self-pity and survivor’s guilt?”

“I’d prefer you to leave me the hell alone, Mycroft!”

“But you know I will not. I did promise Mummy, after all.”

“I don’t care about your promises.”

“But I do. If you continue in this manner, I have no doubt you will eventually be sectioned under the mental health act. There is little even I can do about that.”

“You want to have me institutionalised because I am slightly affected that my flatmate is dead?”

“There is nothing slight about your behaviour. You were not this disturbed when Grand’Mere died. Admittedly, you were in something of a narcotic-induced haze at the time; but this is… altogether different. Something new.”

Sherlock actually winced to hear his own words repeated back to him.

“Clearly, I have struck a nerve. Oh, my dear little brother. We both know you desperately need my help; is admitting it truly so difficult?”

“I need only one thing from you, Mycroft. Your absence. Now get lost.” Sherlock, aware it was not the most mature approach but not caring much at the moment, turned over onto his side, presenting his back to his brother.

The overly obvious sigh was, in its own way, as insulting as the words.

“Thirty four years old; and still a child. Very well. In the circumstances, I will be lenient this time. But I will be keeping an extremely close watch on you, Sherlock. Any further infractions of this nature and I shall be forced to take action, no matter your opinion on the subject. Do try not to terrorise the nurses, won’t you?”

SHSHSHSHSHSH

He’d been gone precisely ten minutes when Sherlock’s mobile rang inside the bedside table.

Although he’d been expecting it, Sherlock’s heart still leapt into his throat when he fished it out and the caller flashed up as John Watson.

_Moriarty. All of this was entirely worth it if he’s going to move up the timetable._

“Hello, Jim,” he said simply.

“It’s me, Sherlock.” The voice was achingly familiar; but it didn’t belong to his enemy.

“John.” The word was breathed like a prayer as his eyes slid closed in relief.

_He’s alive, he’s talking, the poison’s out of his system, he’s going to be all right, he can defend himself, he’s going to give Moriarty trouble… oh, he’ll love that… but why would Moriarty allow us to speak? He’s obviously listening in; but he knows I know that so what does he hope to gain? He can’t be using John as a mouthpiece again; there’s no point since we met face to face and John’s words would be slower, more stilted._

“Feeling better, I take it,” Sherlock stated, his smile creeping into his voice.

“Better than you, or so I’m told.”

_He sounds doubtful, but with a compulsive sadistic liar as his only source of information that’s only to be expected._

“I am fine, John.” He reassured his friend firmly. “A little bored of waking up in hospitals, but fine.”

“It’s true, then? You overdosed yourself?”

“I made a… slight miscalculation.”

There was a long pause. Sherlock could just imagine John’s fists clenching, the tensing of his jaw and shoulder muscles as he fought for self-control. When it finally came, his reply was ground out through gritted teeth.

“When I get home, we are going to be having a long talk about your self medication, Sherlock Holmes. Well, I say talk; I will mostly be shouting. I might even have to punch you for being such a _colossal_ moron.”

“I look forward to it.”

_As long as you are at home and safe, John, you can shout as much as you want._

“You shouldn’t. I’m a doctor and I was a soldier; I know the correct technique and exactly where to aim for maximum pain with minimum actual damage.”

“I’d still be interested in a demonstration. Could come in handy in my line of work.”

“Speaking of work, I have a message for you from our friendly neighbourhood psychopath.”

“And dear old Jim didn’t want to deliver it himself?”

“He thought you were more likely to listen to me about the drugs. He’s almost as angry about it as I am; about the only thing we actually agree on. Another reason I want to hit you; it’s a scary moment when you find common ground with a master criminal.”

“For you? Very.” _Some of us don’t have to try so hard._ “What’s the message?”

“Basically, you’re not the messiah, you’re a very naughty boy.”

“What?” Honest confusion was a very rare experience for Sherlock Holmes.

“Oh, please, Sherlock,” John said, exasperated. “Monty Python’s Life of Brian. It’s a cult classic; tell me you’ve at least heard of John Cleese?”

“Popular culture is irrelevant to my work; you know that. Why people think these gaudy entertainments are important is beyond me.”

“Gaudy entertainments? It’s your cultural heritage, Sherlock… oh, never mind. I’ll get you the box set for Christmas. The point is, Moriarty is pissed off. He says if you touch the drugs again before he’s finished with this… whatever it is he’s got planned… he’s going to blow up something else.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Not that he told me about, but I get the impression it’s something big. Like, say, Camden.”

“That would be a shame; there’s a wonderful little stall selling Caribbean street food down near Camden Lock. The curried goat is the best in London; you should try it sometime.”

“I’ll get my coat…” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Oh, no, I won’t, because I haven’t seen it since I woke up in the back of a cab with a bomb strapped to my torso! This is real, Sherlock! Real people will die if you even think about doing anything so monumentally stupid and selfish again, probably me included!”

“He won’t kill you. You’re his leverage; he wouldn’t waste that.”

“And you think that makes me feel _better_?”

“Better than dead, yes.”

“Please, Sherlock.” The strain in the usually matter of fact voice was clearly audible. “Just promise me you’ll stay off the drugs. You might not care if another building gets blown up but I bloody do.”

_And you would blame me, and yourself for failing to persuade me. It would destroy our… friendship? If that’s what it is; I’m not certain of the definition. Nonetheless, it will be over if I do not give you this promise; and keep it. You’d never be able to look me in the eye again… hmm, slight chest pain, possibly heart strain from the overdose? Should mention it to the nurse._

“I promise, John,” Sherlock told him honestly. “I will not compound my error by repeating it.”

“Does that mean you won’t take anything, or you won’t take too much?”

Sherlock smiled at the suspicious tone; John knew him too well. “Both. You have my word.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Least I could do; you’ve saved my life four times already.”

“Four times? I thought it was only three?”

“The pool and the golem bring it up to four, by my reckoning. Is he altering the timetable?”

“No. You’ll get a text with instructions when the ten days are up. You follow them and Moriarty continues not to kill me. Until then, you’ll just have to wait. Try not to set fire to the flat.”

“I can’t promise you _that_. I do have my limits, even for you, John.”

“Me, too,” the doctor replied darkly. “If he tells you to hurt anyone, you will say no and damn the consequences; do you understand me?” His voice rang with all the military authority he’d ever learned.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had never been good at taking orders.

“Despite what you seem to think, I am perfectly capable of using my own judgement,” he replied waspishly. “Besides, it is pointless to speculate without knowing the details.”

“Just… just tell me you won’t kill for me, Sherlock.” That was his friend speaking, not a soldier. Rather hypocritically, in this particular incidence.

“Even if he’s ‘not a very nice man?’”

“That was completely different!” John protested. “As you well kno…”

The phone went abruptly dead.

_Moriarty cut us off while we were arguing, so that I couldn’t promise John. And doubtless he was hoping that it would bother me that the last words we exchanged were in anger. It doesn’t, of course. I like arguing with him; it’s… stimulating. Yes, John is excellent for mental stimulation; largely the reason I appreciate his company._

_It would have been pointless for us to exchange any kind of farewell, anyway. Such things are ridiculously sentimental little rituals with no basis in logic._

Sherlock disconnected his end of the call and began absently turning the phone over and over in his long-fingered hands.


	7. Heartburn

# Chapter 7: Heartburn

 

Sherlock Holmes was waiting.

He hated waiting. Waiting was boring. Ordinary people waited; and Sherlock Holmes was anything but ordinary. Consulting detectives should have a special licence to never have to wait for anything. Didn’t they know how bored he got waiting for them to get their tiny little brains in gear?

It had been halfway through his ten day sentence before he was released by the hospital. In that time, Sherlock was visited and harangued by not only Mycroft, but Lestrade and Mrs Hudson too. And then there had been that unpleasant business with the trauma councillor…

_Which was hardly my fault; I don’t know why they all blamed me. If the stupid woman hadn’t been so insistently irritating about talking about feelings I do not in fact possess I wouldn’t have had to resort to such extreme measures to get rid of her…_

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Hmm.” He grunted distractedly, flat on his back in the hospital bed; his mind engaged in a long-term scenario based on one of Moriarty’s possible courses of action.

“Hi. My name is Trudi Michelson; Doctor Doshi asked me to visit you…”

“No, thank you,” he replied, bored already.

“I haven’t even told you why I’m here yet.”

“Didn’t need to. You introduced yourself by your first name but no title, so you’re not a doctor or nurse. You’re being purposefully friendly and non-threatening and that pathetic excuse for a doctor thinks I attempted suicide so obviously you are a therapist of some type. In which case, you are wasting your time; I have no need of any kind of counselling.”

“That was very… perceptive… of you.” Her voice was full of the faint shell shock that most people experienced on their first meeting with Sherlock Holmes. “I understand you’ve been through a rough time lately; and sometimes it can help to talk to someone entirely unconnected…”

“Spare me the psychobabble. I am a high functioning sociopath; I do not feel in the conventional sense. Therefore I have no need of emotional support or therapy. Go away; I am thinking.”

“Sociopath? That is a fairly major diagnosis. Have you been seeing a psychologist regularly? I don’t see any medication mentioned in your file…”

“I self- medicate.”

“By which you mean you’re a drug user?”

“What I am largely defies description. Now go away.”

“I can’t do that, Sherlock. I take my job very seriously…”

“Mr Holmes, thank you. And your job is irrelevant. You are single, live alone with at least two cats and read insipid romantic rubbish. You still phone your mother on a daily basis despite the fact you are nearing forty and you buy yourself cut flowers to make you feel more popular than you are.”

“A display of such obviously negligible self-esteem is off-putting enough; but the implication that anyone with as many psychological problems as you is actually capable of helping others with theirs is frankly insulting to their intelligence. Admittedly, I am much more intelligent than the average person; but you couldn’t outmanoeuvre a ten-year-old. Now go and waste your pathetic little life on someone polite enough to indulge you and leave me alone.”

_Really, I do not understand why some women start to gush with mucus at the slightest little thing. It is singularly unpleasant to witness and I doubt they enjoy it much either. So what is the point? Surely they have some measure of control over their emotions; can they not just turn it off?_

Sherlock had been kicked out the very next day. He doubted that this was a coincidence, but was far from complaining. 221B was a far more conducive environment for his thinking exercises than a bland hospital bed with constant interruptions from various members of staff.

The flat was far from how he’d left it, however. Mycroft had clearly been interfering; the place was actually tidy, and he’d found and removed everything even remotely resembling drugs or drug paraphernalia, no matter how cunningly hidden.

Worst of all, John’s things were gone. All of them; vanished as if he’d never existed. Presumably, Harry had them.

_When he gets home, John is going to be very annoyed about that. Especially if she gives all his clothes to Oxfam._

Even his bed had been stripped; there was nothing left but the lingering aroma that clung faintly to his pillow. Sherlock would willingly chew off his own leg before admitting that he had spent several hours with his face pressed into the scratchy fabric, just for the reassurance that John Watson was not in fact a figment of his imagination.

Finally, _finally_ , the torturous two hundred and forty hours of agonising suspense were up and he’d received the texted instructions from Moriarty.

They were every bit as bad as he had anticipated.

_Even if John never speaks to me again, it was worth it. His value is ten times mine._

Sherlock became aware that his fingers were tapping on the tabletop, even as he glared at the phone resting innocently before him, willing it to ring. He was already wearing his coat and scarf, fully prepared to run out of the flat as soon as the call came in.

And then, miraculously, it did.

_Lestrade. At last. I was beginning to think they’d never find it._

“Where's the body?” He demanded, too impatient for a greeting. Lestrade was used to his customary brevity; but he still managed to sound slightly surprised that Sherlock had been expecting another death.

“The pool; what's left of it. It's Moriarty again; got to be.”

“And how do you draw that conclusion, Inspector?”

“He left the victim's wallet. Forty-two, male, lecturer at Imperial College. His name is... was...”

“John Watson,” Sherlock finished his sentence with certainty.

“Bloody hell; how'd you guess that?”

“It wasn't a guess, Lestrade. I'm on my way.”

“Sherlock...” He began, once again reverting to his ‘dealing with victims’ voice. “I should warn you... it's bad. I’ve never seen anything like it. If you want to give this one a miss...”

“Give it a miss? Don't be absurd. Expect me within the hour.”

Sherlock paused for a moment after he got out of his cab, surveying the scene of the collapsed swimming pool, once again swarming with police. There was even a faint aroma of chlorine lingering in the air.

He’d never be able to smell that again without remembering Moriarty’s grin and John’s terrified eyes and pain and fear and noise and choking grey dust and…

He started when a tentative hand was rested on his arm. Sally Donovan was looking up at him, something approaching concern in her eyes.

“Sherlock?” She said, for once totally without derision. “Are you OK?”

“Of course I am, Donovan,” he replied disdainfully, finding his throat inexplicably thick. He cleared it quickly. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been standing there for the last ten minutes.” She examined his expression critically. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“It is not a matter of wanting. Where’s Lestrade?”

“With the body. This way.” Sherlock followed her along an access path that had been cleared through the rubble, presumably by the builders starting to work on the site.

“Why the sudden concern for my wellbeing, Sally?” he asked, curious despite himself. “You haven’t even called me freak yet.”

“Because you’re not acting like one. Haven’t been since… well, since the last time you were here.”

“My behaviour is not significantly altered.”

“You’re at the scene of a grisly murder and you’re not happy about it,” she pointed out. “Seems pretty significant to me. Look, I know I’ve never been exactly nice to you, but…”

“Spare me your platitudes, Sergeant Donovan,” he snapped. “Coming from you, I prefer the insults. Or even better, silence.”

To his astonishment, instead of rage, a flash of understanding crossed her face.

“You want things to be normal, so you don’t have to remember why they’re not,” she said with surprising gentleness. “Ok. You go and do your party trick for the Inspector and we can have a row on your way out. He’s just behind that pile of rubble.”

_I will never understand human beings. I refuse her proffered olive branch and she takes it as proof that I am undergoing some complex grieving process. John could probably explain it…_

_But thinking of John is curiously difficult, here, with the smell of burning and chlorine in my nostrils, when I am about to tell Lestrade… No. Focus on the task at hand. Plenty of time for introspection later. Far too much, probably._

Sherlock rounded the rubble and found the Detective Inspector standing over the body, placed carefully in the hollow where the decoy corpse had been removed after the explosion.

“You look terrible,” Lestrade greeted bluntly. “Are you sure…”

“Shut up and get out of my way, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped. As the policeman obeyed, he got his first good look at the body.

A middle aged man with blue eyes and mousy hair, positioned on his back in the centre of the hole. Not Sherlock’s John, of course; too short, stocky build more fat than muscle, no scar on the left shoulder, clearly exposed by the open shirt.

The reason the shirt had been left unbuttoned and open was equally obvious; to display the appalling wound in the centre of his torso, more than twenty centimetres in diameter.

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Are you OK? Can you hear me?”

The detective vaguely registered Lestrade speaking to him, a note of panic leaking into his voice.

“Of course,” he replied distantly. “The weapon was a handheld propane blowtorch. They can reach temperatures of upwards of five hundred degrees centigrade but this one was set rather lower; closer to two hundred. It was applied directly to the victim’s skin, resulting in this very ugly hole in his chest directly over the heart. The killer knew his anatomy; notice how the weapon was concentrated on the rib to conduct the heat across his torso. Death would have been relatively slow and exquisitely painful as the heart muscle was cooked in his chest.”

“Jesus Christ…” Lestrade breathed. “The poor sod.”

“Quite,” Sherlock acknowledged. _The smell is indescribable. Burnt meat and dirt and death all mixed with chlorine… Strange; I have never before felt even vague nausea in the presence of a cadaver, not even the ones starting to liquefy in the later stages of decomposition… but I feel it now…_

“The ME said that he was alive when he was burned, but there weren’t any marks to show he’d been tied up…”

“Because he wasn’t. The restraint was a chemical one. Clostridium Botulinum; a powerful paralytic with no analgesic properties. He would have felt every moment; but without the power to move, to scream, even to blink as the heart was literally burnt out of him.”

“Clostrid… Hang on, isn’t that what Moriarty was using before? This must have been him, then, mustn’t it? Taunting you, the sick bastard, as if he hasn’t done enough already…”

“No. Not Moriarty,” he replied firmly. “I wanted to know what my John suffered.”

“What?” The police officer protested, angry and incredulous. “Don’t joke around, Sherlock…”

“This is not a joke, Lestrade. It is a confession. Less than four minutes; I think that’s a new record.”

The expression on the Detective Inspector’s face was… stricken, disbelieving.

“You’re… serious? You… you did this?”

“Yes.”

“But… why?” he asked desperately. “You’re not a killer, Sherlock; you catch murderers for a living, for God’s sake…”

“I am responsible for the torture and murder of John Watson. It would be rather hypocritical for me to go unpunished, don’t you think? Therefore I am confessing immediately.”

Lestrade just stared at him, mouth agape, as if the foundations of the world had somehow crumbled beneath his feet.

_Strange, that his disbelief should be more uncomfortable than if he’d simply accept that I have committed a murder._

“Shouldn’t there be handcuffs by now?” Sherlock asked, with mild curiosity, trying to prompt him into some kind of action. “There are usually handcuffs when I’m arrested…”


	8. Paranoia

# Chapter 8: Paranoia

 

The first time John was able to open his eyes independently felt like the most important milestone there had ever been.

Admittedly there was nothing whatsoever to see, since staring at a stark white hospital ceiling was hardly better than the insides of his own eyelids, but it was progress. It meant that he was no longer quite so helpless; if Moriarty visited him now, John could choose not to look at him. It also gave him hope that his condition would improve until his body was returned to its usual slightly battered state.

_It’s been a long while since I last treated a case of botulism, but from what I remember the recovery can take weeks; I don’t have that kind of time. Sherlock doesn’t have that kind of time. Hopefully, because I was only injected with the toxin and not the bacteria itself, it’ll be a bit quicker. Could have some muscle weakness for a while though, as if I needed any more medical issues._

_Least my left hand’s not going to be trembling, the amount of stress I’ve been under lately. Being kidnapped by a criminal mastermind really takes it out of you._

John hadn’t actually seen (or rather heard) said criminal mastermind since Sherlock’s texts. The blank-faced medical staff attended to his physical needs efficiently, but the endless waiting was driving him mad. He had no clock or TV; only the medical equipment broke up the perfect whiteness of everything in it. It was much larger than a standard hospital room, and the blankness of the space gave the impression of it being a spare room, changed into whatever function was needed. Even once his eyes were open to observe it, the blandness meant John couldn’t be distracted from his thoughts.

_I’m worried about Sherlock. There; not in denial at all. He’s far from stable at the best of times; I don’t know how he coped before I moved in and started force-feeding him. Needs a bloody nanny._

_He lost the game, and he can’t stand to lose. Drives him mad when he predicts a fortune cookie wrong, let alone… this. And I bet Moriarty is watching him and laughing. Damn it, I should be there! I shouldn’t be lying here doing nothing when Sherlock needs help!_

_Oh, bloody hell. I’m turning into Mary bloody Poppins._

The respirator was finally removed after he began to be able to move his limbs and he found his voice had returned, although it was weak and painful to start with.

“What day is it?” Was the first raspy question he demanded of the nurses. _Feels like I’ve been here forever, but it can’t be more than a couple of days, can it?_

“We are contractually obliged not to discuss any subject beyond your physical condition, Mr Watson,” one replied in a monotone. “Please do not try to speak.”

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” he growled back. “And I’m not asking what happened on Eastenders last night; just how long I’ve been here.”

“Please do not try to speak,” she repeated. “These ice chips should help your throat.”

Any and every question was met with the same response. None of them would tell him the time, the day, what the weather was like, what was for breakfast; nothing. If they spoke at all, it was to ask clinical medical questions.

Despite his frustration, John forced himself to answer them truthfully. He was fully aware that botulism poisoning was a serious condition and intended to recover as quickly as humanly possible.

He’d been helped into a sitting position for the first time and was feeling fairly proud of himself until Moriarty swept in, John’s phone in hand, looking a lot less excited than last time. In fact, he looked… anxious, annoyed…

John smiled in spite of himself. _Only one person could piss him off this much._

“You’re looking upset, Jim,” he remarked lightly. “What’s Sherlock done now?”

“Landed himself back in hospital,” Moriarty responded in irritation. “Honestly, all that amazing mental acuity; is it really too much to ask that he calculate his dosage properly? I expected some drug use, but this is really unacceptable, after all the time and effort I’ve put in…”

“He’s overdosed?” John tried to lean forwards, but his abdominal muscles were still too weak and he slumped back onto the pillow. “When? With what?” He asked desperately. “Is he all right?”

“Cocaine; almost immediately after he was released following his concussion. If he hadn’t been found… it would have been such a _waste_ …”

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” John asked desperately.

“Come on, Johnny; you know Sherlock Holmes better than almost anyone. You know exactly how well he copes with boredom.”

_Yes, I do. Heads in the fridge, bullet holes in the wall, that stash of syringes under the cutlery drawer he thinks I don’t know about… oh, God…_

“The _stupid_ , selfish son of a… I’m going to kill him,” John stated fiercely.

“Not if I get there first,” Moriarty replied, without a trace of mockery.

His dark, slightly manic eyes met John’s warm blue ones and they shared probably their only moment of perfect accord. Anger, anxiety and exasperation were clearly communicated between the master criminal and the former army doctor for a few seconds before John remembered who he was looking at. He forced himself to break the connection.

“Why are you telling me this? Are you just trying to make me worry about him?”

“You were doing that already, Doctor; it’s in your nature. No; I need you to talk to him,” Moriarty replied, starting to scroll through the contact list on the mobile.

“Me?” John asked, surprised and suspicious.

“For some reason, Sherlock values your opinion. You’re going to say whatever it is you say to persuade him to stay away from the drugs.”

“I’ve been trying to do that since I moved in. He never takes any notice.”

“But he also hasn’t been taking them since you moved in. You must have some influence on his addiction.”

_Really? I wasn’t wasting my breath with all those lectures? Sherlock was actually listening?_

“It’ll be on speakerphone, I’m not stupid. And I’ll cut you off if I think you’re trying to give him clues or if you’re just taking too long; don’t want to run up your phone bill. You can also pass on the message that his little stunt isn’t going to change my plans; he’ll still get the text when the ten days are up and no sooner.”

Moriarty’s own phone beeped in his pocket; he checked the screen.

“Good; Big Brother has left the building. Those government cars are so ridiculously easy to spot. That means Sherlock’s awake and at least reasonably coherent; Mycroft wouldn’t have left without telling him off. Time to make the call. Oh, and Johnny…” His voice dropped into a threatening purr. “Just to give you some additional motivation; if you fail and Sherlock keeps on shooting up, I’m going to detonate more than a block of flats or an empty swimming pool. Much more.”

As Jim hit the button to make the call, the doctor had no doubts he was telling the truth.

Hearing Sherlock’s voice was both comforting and unexpectedly painful. John fumbled through the conversation, bickering with his flatmate as much as he dared while trying desperately to ignore the black eyes boring into his face. Moriarty was listening intently, cataloguing and analysing every word they exchanged, every twitch of John’s face. The scrutiny made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, like they hadn’t since Sergeant Miller had spent minutes on end bellowing into his face in basic training.

_After that, the enemy always seemed almost friendly. Until Moriarty became the enemy._

The criminal mastermind cut John off mid-sentence; far earlier than he would have liked.

“I think that’s enough, Doctor Watson,” he said, pocketing the phone. “You got your point across; and he did make you a promise. I think we’ll both sleep better at night now.”

 _Is that… was that… relief? Even… gratitude, in his voice? From a twisted mass murderer? Bloody hell, Sherlock; only you could get a stalker who threatens to blow things up because he’s_ worried _about you self-destructing… almost as much as me, daft bugger that I am._

“Moriarty,” John called after him. The man turned at the doorway. “Thank you. For, you know, letting me talk some sense into him.”

The dark eyes widened slightly in surprise… and then further at the fact he’d been surprised by a man as ordinary as John Watson.

_Either that was a truce for Sherlock’s sake, or I’m starting to develop Stockholm Syndrome. Because in that moment, I swear Moriarty almost looked human._

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Their next encounter was far less friendly.

John wasn’t certain if the ten days were up or not. The monotony of the four white walls of his room was only broken by various medical staff checking on him; it could have been five days or a fortnight for all he knew. The lights were never dimmed and there were no windows, playing hell with his internal clock.

John had been having physiotherapy sessions as his condition gradually improved, and taken his first weak and shaky steps with the aid of a walking frame. Today had been his first attempt at walking unaided and he was exhausted. It was far too much like his recovery after Afghanistan for comfort, with the trembling weakness in his limbs as he fought to achieve something as simple as standing on his own two feet.

And then Moriarty waltzed in, effervescent with excitement, a laptop clutched bafflingly in his hand.

“Johnny boy!” He trilled, setting his captive’s teeth on edge and his stomach plummeting to his toes. “Hope you’re feeling better; I’m sure you must be bored out of even your tiny little mind by now.”

“Course I am. Even the NHS lets patients watch crap daytime telly. What is this place, anyway; some kind of storage room?”

“Shame on you, Johnny; you don’t really think I’d fall for something as unsubtle as that, do you? And I’ve brought you such a treat, as well; a lovely home video.” He prised the laptop open and plopped it onto John’s lap.

“Here we are… and… play. This was ridiculously easy to get; you’d be amazed at the number of well-connected people who owe me favours.” He leaned over John to enjoy the show.

The screen showed the interior of a police interview room, the unmistakable figure of Sherlock Holmes facing directly into the camera. The backs of the interviewer’s heads, a blonde woman and a balding middle aged man, framed his features.

_He looks tired, stressed… those lines around his eyes… but oh, gods it’s good to see his face._

“Mr Holmes; please tell us where you were at approximately three thirty this morning,” the man began formally.

“The remains of Porter Road Leisure Centre,” was Sherlock’s bored reply.

“And what were you doing there?”

“Committing murder,” he stated matter of factly.

John’s vision whited out. His breath caught in his throat and his heart stalled in his chest even as the blood thrummed in his ears.

_Oh, please, Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t… please, no… let it be a trick, a fake, a lie, anything but truth…_

By the time his brain started working again, Sherlock was complaining, frustration easily heard in his voice.

“Is it really necessary to repeat all this? I did it, I freely admit my guilt; just lock me up and save yourselves the court costs.”

“We need to have your confession on the record, Sherlock.” The policewoman told him. “You were involved in the explosion that occurred at the leisure centre last week, weren’t you?”

“I was present, yes.”

“I understand you were injured.”

“Not seriously.”

“But there was a fatality in that blast,” the man cut in.

“Yes. My flatmate, Doctor John Watson. He was being held hostage by the bomber.”

“Reports claim that you left the building before the explosion…”

“I was told that if I left, John would not be harmed. Clearly, that was a lie.”

“You describe Doctor Watson as your flatmate,” the woman commented. “Was your relationship a close one?”

“We were not sleeping together, if that is what you are implying. He was my colleague and associate.”

“Not your friend?”

The corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched. “That, too.”

“So you were affected by his death?”

“Of course.”

“You were re-admitted to hospital within days of the explosion with a cocaine overdose. The doctors who treated you suspected a suicide attempt; were they correct?”

“John was abducted because he was close to me. His death was preventable, and therefore entirely my responsibility. I… do not deal well with failure. Unfortunately, I was interrupted. I knew I would be watched after that; so I altered my plans.”

_Suicide? No… not a chance. There’s no way he’d leave me in a situation like this; he was just being an idiot, as usual._

“If you examine my laptop, you will find an undeleted browser history of my research into potential victims. I selected the John Watson most similar to mine, abducted and poisoned him and then, when he was incapable of screaming, I murdered him.”

 _I murdered him…_ the three simple words, spoken so matter of factly, chilled his flatmate to the bone. _Another John Watson… with a family and friends, dead because he has the same name as Sherlock Holmes’ flatmate… oh, God…_

“But why?” The balding policeman asked. “Why kill an innocent man who had the same name as your dead friend?”

“The logic is perfectly sound.” Sherlock informed the police coldly. “To achieve justice; for both of them. I caused the death of Doctor John Watson. I fully deserve to be held accountable, but I knew I would not be convicted of my John’s murder. The only logical solution was to commit another murder and provide enough evidence to allow even the least intelligent of policemen to correctly assign blame.”

 _That does sound like a sociopath’s logic… but Sherlock isn’t one; I know he isn’t. The words he whispered in the pool, the way he said my name on the phone… he does care about people… well, he cares about a_ few _people, a bit. So he’s lying. And if he’s lying about trying to top himself and his motive for murder, what else is he lying about?_

_Unless I’m grasping at straws and he’s just using it as justification ‘cos he can’t tell them about Moriarty…_

“And the gruesome method you used?” The man demanded. “Was that really necessary?”

“The bomber told me he would burn the heart out of me. He succeeded.”

“You were in love with Doctor Watson?” The woman enquired, her tone gentling a little.

For the very first time, Sherlock looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted to the camera.

“John was… _good_.” The intonation was identical to the way he’d said it in the pool, in his attempt at a thank you after John had offered to sacrifice his life for his friend. The memory of that touchingly awkward moment burned in John’s mind.

“He was, by far, the best human being that I have ever encountered. Lestrade said he made me better. Happy. I don’t know if that qualifies as _love_ , as such; I am far from an expert on the subject.”

 _Hang on… he looked at the camera. And the word love isn’t enough to make him_ that _uncomfortable. He said_ good _, in that particular way… he guessed I was going to be watching this; it is the kind of thing Moriarty would do, after all… and he said I made him better… It’s a message, got to be._

_He’s telling me he didn’t do it. Bloody hell; Sherlock didn’t do it! The sadistic bastard made him confess to something he didn’t do!_

John saw the malicious glee in Moriarty’s dark eyes, leaning in close to enjoy Sherlock’s confession; and felt the rage rise to overwhelm his body’s weakness.

The punch was easily the most satisfying he’d ever thrown.

 


	9. Anaphylaxis

# Chapter 9: Anaphylaxis

 

Sally Donovan, contrary to popular opinion, didn’t hate Sherlock Holmes. In fact, hate was not even close to describing how she felt about him.

Loathing, repulsion, abhorrence, antipathy… those were much better adjectives for their relationship.

_What makes it worse is that he doesn’t even see me as important enough to hate; he just carries on with his casual cruelty to everyone around him and barely notices how we mere mortals feel about it._

The beginning of their virulent dislike was, of course, the moment Sally ran into Sherlock at a crime scene, examining the pattern of blood spatter on a tastefully painted wall with his magnifying glass. The large, pleasant family home was spoilt only by the woman lying with her brains blown out all over her luxurious living room.

Donovan’s first thought when she laid eyes on him she swore she would never, ever admit under pain of death. Or even a whole bottle of vodka.

_Mmm… nice arse. Must be new in Forensics; I’d definitely have noticed him around._

Lestrade was standing over him, arms crossed, looking annoyed as the tall young man examined the stains minutely.

“Finished the canvas, sir,” she reported smartly, still keeping half an eye on her intended prey. “None of the neighbours heard anything.”

“Of course they didn’t,” Sherlock answered disdainfully, barely distracted from his work. “Nine millimetre semi-automatic with attached silencer; this was a professional hit.”

“A hit? On a housewife?” Lestrade asked incredulously. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. At this range from the body, the blood droplets should be at least three millimetres across; these are barely one. So, something reduced the velocity of the bullet; ergo silencer.”

“It could have been a less powerful weapon, or a misfire…” The DI suggested.

“No. Misfire would have left significant unburned powder around the wound and the hole in her skull is too big for it to be anything less than a nine mil.”

“All right; but what’s the motive? Annette Farringdon was hardly an international arms dealer…”

“No, of course not. It was the husband. Marriage was in trouble, likely another woman involved, money worries; probably had life insurance he wanted to collect. Hired someone so he could be sure to have a good alibi; probably put the payment through the business accounts so he’d turn up squeaky clean in any investigation. Obvious,” he added, disdain dripping from his voice. “You must try harder to find me _interesting_ cases, Lestrade; this one was hardly worth getting up for.”

“She had _three children_ ,” Sally breathed, unable to believe he could be so callous.

“Yes, the pictures are everywhere,” he commented coldly. “I will never understand people’s obsession with plastering their homes with hundreds of images of their offspring; it only clutters the place. Surely they see enough of them in the flesh, living in the same house. You’d think they’d want a bit of variety.”

“Sometimes, Sherlock,” Lestrade, himself a father of two, ground out. “I don’t know why I let you onto any cases. ‘Cos right now I’m quite tempted to tip off the drug squad to raid your flat and have you banged up for possession with intent to supply.”

“But you won’t, Inspector. You invite me because you need me; and it would be rather more of a challenge to solve your crimes for you from prison. I suggest you start looking for Mr Farringdon’s mistress in the accounts department of his company. He would need an accomplice there to pay an assassin without any awkward questions being asked. Text me when you have a case more worthy of my time.”

He stalked out in a sweep of dark coat.

“Who the hell is that?” Sally demanded. “He should be sacked for talking like that about a murder victim!”

“That was Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade admitted, looking somewhat chagrined as well as irritated. “And I can’t sack him; he’s not – technically - employed.”

 _“What!”_ Sally couldn’t believe it; allowing a member of the public onto a crime scene was not only breaking every rule in the book, it was also practically asking for some expensive lawyer to get the suspect off on a technicality. “You let some random freak just wander onto murder scenes? Do you _want_ the evidence to be kicked out of court?”

“He’s an… unofficial consultant. And he’s the best forensics bloke I’ve ever seen. Takes one look at a body and can tell you the victim’s life story. Shame he’s such a heartless bastard.”

 _Heartless bastard doesn’t even_ begin _to describe Sherlock Holmes. I knew then that he was a freak, a psycho who’d kill, sooner or later. What else can you call a man who’s_ bored _by the idea of three innocent kids losing their mum and then having their dad locked up for her murder?_

_And I wasn’t the only one. Anderson saw it too, and some of the other lads. Lestrade’s the only one who ever thought Sherlock Holmes might possibly be human under all that icy intelligence. Well, until John turned up, anyway._

_I never thought I’d see the day the freak was actually affected by a death. He tried to kill himself because he couldn’t cope with_ feeling _, for the first time in his miserable lonely life. And I actually felt sorry for him!_ Me _, of all people; I should have known better._

_And just when I was starting to think that maybe I might have misjudged him, he proves I was right about him all along._

_The bastard. Why’d he have to start acting human and_ then _kill someone? If he’d been his normal freakish self I could tell Lestrade I told him so without feeling bad about it._

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Sally stepped into her boss’s office with a cup of coffee. She knew that this would be hitting him hard, but the sight of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade leaning on his desk with his head in his hands was surprisingly unsettling.

“Thought you could do with this,” she said, cautiously.

“Hope there’s booze in it,” he replied bitterly, scrubbing his hands through his short, greying hair before accepting the cup. “I’m going to need it; got a meeting with the Super in ten minutes to discuss my use of a homicidal Consulting Detective.

“Sorry,” Donovan replied. “Coffee machine doesn’t come with an emergency Scotch button.”

“Bloody should do, around here,” he replied with feeling. “Thanks anyway.” He took a sip and sighed deeply. “Go on, then; tell me the worst of it.”

“Well, besides his confession; Mrs Hudson confirmed that Sherlock was out the night of the other John’s murder. The lab boys have found his research on every Watson in London on his laptop. The blowtorch we found at the scene has been confirmed as the murder weapon by the medical examiner and the fingerprints on it are a match to Sherlock Holmes. If he pleads insanity, he might get away with twenty years instead of life.”

“I know you’re dying to say it, Donovan,” he said wearily. “You’ve been telling me for years that this would happen.”

_Now the moment’s finally here… I can’t do it. Poor old Lestrade’s got enough on his plate._

“Yeah, I have,” she replied cautiously. “Never imagined it quite like this, though.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I knew Sherlock Holmes was capable of murder. But the motive… I always thought he’d do it because he was bored, or to find out what it felt like. Not because he cared about someone enough to feel guilty about getting them killed.”

“I don’t think he’d ever had a friend before,” Lestrade said softly. “No one who actually liked him, like John did.”

“Says something about Doctor Watson, that, doesn’t it? I knew no one who hung out with the freak could possibly be normal.”

“He was a braver man than me,” he replied with a touch of sorrow. “Anyone prepared to eat in Sherlock’s kitchen among all the dangerous chemicals and body parts has got to have nerves of steel.”

“Not to mention an incredibly strong stomach,” a cultured voice interjected from the doorway. The two police officers looked up to see Superintendent Matthews, a balding, slightly overweight man in his late forties, accompanied by the speaker, a well dressed ginger man carrying an umbrella. “We meet again, Inspector Lestrade,” he continued. “And this must be Sergeant Donovan.”

Lestrade rose quickly to his feet. “Mr…”

“Mycroft, please, Inspector,” he interrupted warmly. “We are old friends, after all.” He must have noticed Sally’s confused expression, because he addressed himself to her as he continued.

“I am here representing MI5, as I supervise all of our surveillance on Sherlock Holmes. As I was just explaining to the Superintendent, I wish to observe his interview.”

“MI5 have Sherlock under surveillance?” Donovan exclaimed. “Why? And why’re you only just contacting us now?”

“Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to discuss the reasons for our interest. Suffice to say that Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man; and I had to be utterly certain of all of the facts before speaking to you.”

“Well, we know he’s dangerous,” Sally scoffed. “He has just confessed to murder…”

“Indeed,” Mycroft remarked with a distinctly enigmatic smile.

Sally, Mycroft and Lestrade watched Matthews and another senior police officer interview Sherlock via videolink from another room, all three of them hanging on every word spoken. The tense silence continued throughout the interview, until it was over and Matthews joined them in front of the screen. Sherlock’s lanky form was still clearly displayed, slouched in his chair looking bored as he waited to be escorted back to his cell.

“It seems open and shut,” the Superintendent said, with a somewhat nervous glance at Mycroft. “A full confession…”

“Yes, he was very convincing, wasn’t he?” Mycroft replied, slightly amused. “Sherlock always is when he’s lying, of course. It’s when he tells the truth it’s difficult to believe him.”

“He wasn’t lying!” Sally exclaimed, unable to stand the idea that Sherlock could actually get away with murder even with the huge weight of evidence they had against him. “He knew all the details; he had motive, means, opportunity… We’ve got his fingerprints on the murder weapon, for God’s sake!”

“Which would easily have him convicted in any court in the land,” the mysterious MI5 official agreed. “Until the rest of the evidence were presented.”

“I’d like to see that evidence before we release our suspect, if you don’t mind,” Matthews interjected.

“But of course, Superintendent,” Mycroft acquiesced. “I have irrefutable proof of Sherlock Holmes’ innocence.”

_I don’t trust this smarmy git; he’s definitely got his own agenda. How d’we know this ‘evidence’ is even genuine?_

Mycroft produced a dictophone from his pocket. “This was recorded shortly after Sherlock regained consciousness following his recent cocaine overdose. I placed the bug in his mobile phone personally.” He pressed play.

“Hello, Jim.” The recorded voice was easily recognisable to all of them as Sherlock’s.

“It’s me, Sherlock.” Donovan’s mind went briefly blank with shock, and then started to try and work out how it had been faked.

_That could’ve been recorded weeks ago; or maybe you just got in a really good impressionist… I’m sure you can afford it._

Lestrade started. “But that’s…”

“John…” even the recording couldn’t blunt the relief in the usually even tones. Mycroft switched it off.

“If you listen to the conversation in full, it is quite obvious that Doctor John Watson is alive and being held hostage. In a series of text messages received a few days later, Sherlock was ordered to confess to murdering another man of the same name. Had he refused, John would truly be dead by this point.”

“It doesn’t prove he didn’t murder anyone, even if he was under duress,” Sally interjected, with an edge of desperation.

“Quite correct, Sergeant Donovan. The CCTV footage that puts him firmly on the other side of London at the time of the murder, however, is very compelling. I have copies of the recordings on their way here as we speak.”

“But if John’s alive… who was it we pulled out of the bomb site?” Lestrade asked.

“A convenient body double; Moriarty has been using his influence to delay the results of the DNA tests, in order to slow your progress. Fortunately, his power over my own forensics team is far less pronounced.”

_Oh, yeah? And what about your influence over them?_

“Would you mind if I had a quick word with Sherlock? After all, it hardly seems worth returning him to his cell now, does it?”

“If you want, sir,” Matthews agreed, somewhat helplessly. “I’ll escort you down.”

The moment they were alone, Sally turned to a grinning Lestrade.

“Who was that?” She demanded. “Is he really MI5?”

“When it suits him. He’s some very high up civil servant or something, I think.”

“Why is a civil servant interested in a freak like Sherlock?”

“Oh; I thought you knew. Mycroft Holmes is Sherlock’s brother.”

_Brother? The freak committed a murder and then his big brother pulls strings to get him off scot-free? And we’re supposed to believe the evidence he gives us!_

_I can’t believe that just for a little while, I stopped hating the bastard._


	10. Migraine

# Chapter 10: Migraine

 

Mycroft Holmes was fully aware that he was cold, calculating, manipulative and not generally considered, by society at large, as a good or likeable human being.

He’d never seen this as a problem, as such; indeed, it was a significant advantage in his chosen profession. After all, why go to all the effort of actually doing something when a few carefully placed whispers in the right ears would precipitate the same result? It was much easier to merely arrange matters from the comfortable distance of his favourite antique leather armchair.

The only exception to this rule, other than really major international incidents requiring personal attention, was his brother.

The Holmes family had never been a particularly close or loving one. Mycroft and his father were very alike; both detached workaholics embroiled in Whitehall with little interest in anything else. Mr Holmes was, however, very fond of hosting grand dinner parties; for which he required a capable organiser and hostess.

For these very practical reasons, he married an attractive woman of suitable social status a few years younger than himself and found the situation a very agreeable one. His wife arranged his home comforts, leaving him more time to plot world domination before the fire with a fine cigar and a glass of extortionately expensive brandy.

Mycroft’s arrival two years later was somewhat more of a surprise. Mrs Holmes was pleased with the baby, however, and as he grew Mycroft’s potential as a protégé became more and more apparent.

Having noticed and been slightly concerned by her son’s advanced intelligence and antisocial habits, Mrs Holmes decided that she wanted another child. She gave birth to a baby girl, Aramethia, when Mycroft was four.

Young as he had been, Mycroft still perfectly remembered being woken in the night by his mother’s scream from the nursery.

Cot death was not, in those days, a recognised diagnosis. The sudden, inexplicable loss of Aramethia Holmes aged two months had a devastating but silent effect on the family; as soon as the funeral was over, her name was never mentioned again. It was as if she’d never existed; except that Father hardly ever came home from work any more and Mummy started to creep into Mycroft’s room at night to watch him sleep. He could tell when she’d done this; her silent tears always left his pillows a little damp in the morning.

When Sherlock was born three years later, he was instantly enveloped in the shadow of the sister he never knew he’d lost. Their mother obsessively checked on him, never allowing her baby to be out of her sight for more than a few minutes. She moved her own bed into Sherlock’s nursery and never let him sleep anywhere but in her arms.

Neither having much interest in babies, the seven-year-old Mycroft and his father spent much more time together.

Sherlock grew into a spoilt, overindulged child, petulant and demanding. Mummy wept when Mycroft went off to boarding school aged eleven, but when the time came for Sherlock to follow him she flatly refused to let him go.

It was the one and only disagreement Mr Holmes ever lost with his wife. In the end, Sherlock was home schooled; probably the reason he lost his already shaky ability to relate to his peers.

And then Carl Powers died.

Finally, Sherlock’s intelligence had a focus; something that truly interested him to apply his genius to. They had always played observation games as children, which Mycroft had learned from Father and then passed on to his brother. Now Sherlock became obsessive, devouring forensics textbooks at frightening speed and spending hours stalking anyone who caught his interest.

By the time he went off to Cambridge he was isolated, socially awkward and far more intelligent than not only the other students but often the lecturers too. Needless to say, he was deeply unpopular. Bored, Sherlock began to experiment with everything he could find, starting with cigarettes and culminating with cocaine.

And every time he got in over his head, it was Mycroft who came to the rescue. Their father had long ago given up on Sherlock ever following in his footsteps, but he allowed his eldest son to practice and hone his skills on sorting out his brother’s messes. It would, after all, cause embarrassment if a Holmes were jailed for breaking and entering with a set of home-made lock picks.

 _Father would be rolling in his grave if he knew Sherlock had confessed to_ murder _. And Mummy would be_ so _upset._

Mycroft supposed watching over Sherlock had become a habit. He was fond of his younger brother, as much as he was fond of anyone. Sherlock was clearly utterly incapable of attending to his own wellbeing, which left Mycroft with a strange sense of fraternal responsibility; a feeling that only intensified after their parents’ deaths.

Sherlock, of course, loathed the very concept of anyone telling him what to do. He’d long resented his brother’s interference, as if it were a personal insult that anyone would want to stop him getting himself killed in some idiotic stunt.

_And then suddenly John Watson wandered onto the scene, and Sherlock had someone else to look after him. Someone he actually respects._

Mycroft assured himself that this was largely a positive development. John was a perfect companion for his brother; loyal, courageous, honourable, compassionate and an exceptional shot. Not to mention that considering Sherlock’s attitude to his personal safety, having a trained doctor close by at all times was an extremely good idea.

_Really, the situation couldn’t have worked out better if I’d arranged it myself. Every time I have tried to introduce someone suitable in the past Sherlock has spotted the ruse within minutes and either made a run for it or driven them to hand in their notice within hours. Sometimes both._

He still couldn’t help but feel just a tiny bit of jealousy, because Sherlock listened to John, his intellectual inferior, over the frankly brilliant Mycroft. He trusted the former soldier to guide him; to draw the line between ‘good’ and ‘not good,’ as he hadn’t trusted his brother since they were children. Mycroft counted himself fortunate to get sarcasm instead of silent staring when he presented a logical and well-reasoned explanation of what his sibling had done wrong and how he should correct his future behaviour. It seemed all John had to do was shout and throw a few insults to achieve much more satisfying results.

_I suspect it may simply be Sherlock’s inherent stubborn contrariness. Although John Watson is a genuinely good man, worthy of admiration, my brother has never shown any inclination towards such behaviour in the past. He has also never trusted anyone to this degree; to send someone else in his place to gather data on a case is unheard of._

_I must admit, John’s presence does make conversations with Sherlock much easier. He doesn’t spend the entire time staring silently at me or playing discords he knows give me migraines on his violin. It’s rather like having a neutral mediator in a truce negotiation following a particularly long and bloody war._

When the first reports came in about the pool explosion, Mycroft’s eyes slid closed for a moment; practically a hysterical reaction coming from him. He’d foreseen something like this happening, even warned his brother not to put his doctor friend too far into the firing line; and, predictably, been totally ignored. And the result was the death of possibly the only man on Earth who Sherlock Holmes genuinely liked and listened to.

Or so it seemed. It had been Sherlock’s face when Mycroft visited him in the hospital which tipped him off that all was not as it appeared. The very first moment their gazes met, an expression he hadn’t seen in decades manifested in his brother’s usually cold blue-grey eyes. It was gone in a split second, but that was more than enough.

Panic.

_The last time I saw that look on his face was when I caught him using Father’s best brandy as an accelerant in a misguided experiment into the flammability of the curtains in Mummy’s sitting room. He was twelve at the time; but he still hasn’t quite forgiven my success in preventing him burning the house down._

_Clearly, there is something going on that he is desperate to conceal._

Mycroft’s own discreet investigations had proven him correct; the body recovered from the pool site was not Doctor John Hamish Watson. It was while he was musing on the implications of that fact that he received a rather panicked phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade informing him that Sherlock was in the process of being rushed to hospital following a massive cocaine overdose.

At that point, any normal brother would have wasted no time rushing to the hospital to be with his sibling, as if their very proximity would help in some way. Mycroft, on the other hand, knew that there were much more productive ways to spend his very valuable time than sitting in some bland waiting room.

Firstly, he arranged for a team to descend on 221b and personally accompanied them to ensure that none of Sherlock’s favourite hiding places were overlooked in the search for narcotics.

_Really; I’m surprised he was so unimaginative as to tape the syringes to the underside of the plastic liner in the cutlery drawer. Even John probably knew about them._

Mycroft also saw to it that the place was thoroughly cleansed of John Watson’s possessions and had them boxed up and removed to secure storage.

_Something for which I am certain the good doctor will thank me. Better that than having his alcoholic sister turn up demanding his things and then selling the lot on ebay. And seeing them gone will doubtless help my brother think about catching Moriarty instead of his absent flatmate._

By the time he finally arrived at Sherlock’s bedside, Mycroft hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and was painfully aware that he looked far from his best. But that was a temporary inconvenience, which could be attended to in due time. Getting a small but extremely advanced covert transmitter planted inside his brother’s mobile phone before he woke up was his first priority.

_And it would have been remiss of me, as a responsible sibling, not to recover the deleted memory while I was doing so. The texts exchanged between Sherlock and Moriarty were extremely revealing. I had of course already deduced that John was being held hostage; but I had hoped Sherlock’s uncharacteristic sloppiness in miscalculating his dosage was an instruction from Moriarty rather than a simple error._

_Unfortunately, it was not to be. For such a remarkably intelligent man, he can be spectacularly stupid at times. Although I admit, the photograph he received was singularly disturbing for anyone with an interest in John Watson’s health and wellbeing._

After their usual formulaic argument about his drug use, Mycroft left Sherlock to his own devices, certain that Moriarty would observe his departure and use it as an opportunity to contact the now conscious patient. He was not disappointed; although hearing the familiar voice of John Watson over the receiving device was something of a surprise.

Rather more surprising was the alacrity with which Sherlock agreed to abstain from further drug use. _John was more successful in a three-minute telephone call than I have been in more than a decade; although I suppose I have never threatened mass murder in order to gain his co-operation. It is something to bear in mind next time he is being particularly difficult._

The next bout of text messages, containing Sherlock’s instructions from Moriarty, was somewhat more disturbing to Mycroft. Certainly, several of them had to be permanently erased from all records before he could present the evidence to the police.

_And the editing of the security camera footage took quite some time; I estimate it will be arriving for examination any minute now. Which leaves me plenty of time for a nice chat with my favourite brother…_

When Mycroft entered the interview room, Sherlock’s left cheek twitched.

_Ah. Extreme stress. I shall brace myself for the inevitable sarcasm._

“Come to visit the condemned man, Mycroft?” Sherlock drawled scathingly. “How very charitable of you.”

“No, Sherlock; I am merely her to offer once again my – not inconsiderable- assistance,” Mycroft replied, taking a casual seat opposite his brother. _Fortunate that I have sufficient influence to ensure that this interview is not recorded for posterity. And especially not for Moriarty._

“Want to buy me a get out of jail free card, do you?” Sherlock bit out. “Forget it; I don’t want your money, brother dear.”

“I want to help you, as I always have. There is no need for you to be so childishly reluctant about it.”

“I am not a child running around after you any more.”

“No; you are an adult who consistently runs after serial killers instead. And now one is pursuing you, with equal fervour.”

“I am not being pursued.”

“Of course you are,” Mycroft all but scoffed. “The deduction is so simple I’m certain even Lestrade would have worked it out eventually. Moriarty has taken John. And you will follow any instruction he gives in order to keep Doctor Watson alive and well.”

“And if that hypothesis were correct, why would I do that?” Sherlock enquired, cagily.

“Because your flatmate is the only human being in the world you genuinely care about. The only one you trust.”

“Who says I trust him?”

Mycroft smiled. _All my theories confirmed by a single syllable._

“Those were his exact words regarding you, the very first time I met him. John must be rubbing off on you.”

“John is dead,” Sherlock stated flatly. Mycroft raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Then why did you just refer to him in the present tense? Trust, not trust _ed_ , Sherlock. He’s alive. Now it is just a matter of finding him…” Mycroft rose to leave, re-buttoning his suit jacket.

“Please,” Sherlock blurted suddenly. “Don’t get involved.”

Mycroft hesitated; that was an extremely rare word coming from his brother.

“Sherlock, you must see that you cannot defeat Moriarty alone…”

“I don’t care about the game! It doesn’t matter; I don’t matter. John is the only thing that is important and I can’t…” He stopped abruptly.

 _You can’t lose him._ Something uncharacteristically soft shone in Mycroft’s cold blue eyes. _Oh, Sherlock. Mummy always insisted you did have a heart, but I never quite believed her… until now._

“He deserved better,” the detective mumbled, fixing his gaze on the tabletop.

“As you wish, Sherlock. I shall not interfere any further.”

“Thank you.” _Another rare phrase; even more so when spoken so genuinely._

“If you should need anything, or change your mind…”

“I won’t,” he interrupted firmly.

“The offer is an open one. Mummy would be very proud of you today, I think. And so would John.”

“No he wouldn’t. John would tell me I’m a bloody idiot.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? But he’d be proud nonetheless.” The elder Holmes moved to the door of the interview room and opened it, leaving his brother seated at the table.

“Well, come along, Sherlock. I am certain you have better things to be doing than sitting in a cell.”

“What… You told me you wouldn’t interfere!”

“I told you I would not interfere _further_. Fortunately, I have already provided indisputable evidence that you were in Brixton, a number of miles from the swimming pool, at the time of the murder. Not to mention the proof that your confession was under duress; you should really have deleted those texts more thoroughly, not to mention the photograph.”

“You… bastard!” _Sherlock’s vast vocabulary seems to have deserted him. It does that when he gets emotional; and one look at his face… well. It makes the curtain incident look like child’s play._

“Dear me; perhaps John isn’t such a good influence. Soldiers are not known for their erudition.”

“You gave the police fabricated evidence, Mycroft!”

“I prevented you being convicted of a murder you did not commit. I knew a thank you would be too much to ask, but…”

“What makes you so certain I didn’t do it? Or don’t you care?” Sherlock accused viciously. “Just trying to keep me at your disposal to do your legwork so you never have to move from your cosy office?”

Mycroft sighed. “You, Sherlock, create more legwork than any of my other duties. And I know that you are innocent because I know my brother.”

“You never knew me, _brother_ ,” Sherlock spat the word as if it were something foul. “If you think I wouldn’t kill for John Watson.”

“I have no doubt you would, if the situation warranted it.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “It is curious that the two of you bonded so strongly with such alacrity. It seems your little Study In Pink forged something unbreakable; a secret shared, a trust given… a life saved.”

“You would stoop so low as to use _that_?”

“I will use every tool at my disposal, if I must. You should remember that, Sherlock. Now, since you have refused any further assistance, I should be getting back to the office.” He paused in the doorway when his brother spoke again, icy rage and utter determination dripping from every syllable.

“If Moriarty kills John, I will hold you personally responsible, Mycroft.”

“He won’t.” _I am ninety six point eight percent certain that he won’t._ “Moriarty knows you need John as well as I do. I’ll arrange to have his things returned to Baker Street; I imagine you have more pressing matters to attend to. Happy hunting.”


	11. Indigestion

**Chapter 11: Indigestion**

 

Sherlock Holmes had just been cleared of murder charges.

He was absolutely _livid_.

 _Why does Mycroft always have to_ interfere _? It is my life; I know exactly what I’m doing and I do not need him meddling with my affairs. If I choose to be convicted of murder, he should leave me alone and let me do as I want!_

_Doesn’t he realise how delicate the situation is? What Moriarty could do to John because of his obsessive need to control my every action? Even if his death is improbable, there is no limit to the human imagination when it comes to causing pain. It could be whips or hallucinogenic drugs or thumbscrews or amputation of extremities… Or, more likely, telling John I killed an innocent man for him and letting his significantly overactive conscience torture him with no more effort._

_Even if Moriarty does release him to me, John Watson may never be my friend again._

He stopped his frantic pacing for a moment to contemplate the tight chill inhabiting his chest cavity; it was not a sensation he was familiar with.

He spun abruptly when the door to the small waiting room opened to admit Lestrade, carrying an overnight bag.

“Your brother left a change of clothes for you, Sherlock,” he said, proffering the bag with an awkward expression. “Look, I just wanted to say…”

“Don’t care,” the younger man cut him off, resuming wearing out the carpet, pushing his curls out of his face in frustration. “What I need is my phone.”

Lestrade looked rather off-balanced by the interruption. “It’s still in the lab with the forensics boys…”

“Then give me yours!” Sherlock demanded. “I need a phone, right now!”

“Ok, ok…” Lestrade handed it over without protest. “Who are you phoning?”

“Texting,” he answered distractedly, already tapping on the keypad. “Moriarty’s using John’s mobile.”

**Mycroft interfered. Tried to stop him, too late. Charges dropped. SH.**

“You’re using _my_ phone to text a mass murderer?! My work phone!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade; Moriarty probably has more police officers owing him favours than I do. Getting your number would be easy; he even phoned Donovan once to get me, remember? Now shut up; your idiocy is distracting.” The phone beeped in his hand.

Aww, brotherly love. Don’t fret, Sherlock. Johnny’s sleeping like a baby. M

What now? SH

**Dinner. Tonight, 8.30. La Belle Bleu. Just the two of us. Any gatecrashers and I’ll have to wake your Doctor. He won’t enjoy it. M**

_By which you mean you’ll torture him. Subtlety in text messages is not your strong point, Jim._

**See you there. SH.**

Sherlock tapped Lestrade’s phone against his jaw, lost in thought.

_He wants to have dinner with me? Why? Is it just an attempt to make me uncomfortable while we talk, or is there some more sinister reason? He must want to discuss John… Perhaps he wants to give me another challenge; but he will know by now that Mycroft and the police are aware that he is coercing me…_

“Well?”

 _Apparently, Lestrade has got bored of watching me think. John never does that; he knows the value of silence, of an uninterrupted thought process, and he likes to watch my mighty brain in action. He might never have the chance to see it again. I might never have the chance to see_ him _seeing it again…_

“A dinner invitation,” he answered absently.

“What?!” The policeman exclaimed. “This psycho sets you challenges, blows people up, kidnaps your best mate, makes you confess to a murder you didn’t commit and now he’s inviting you on a _date_?”

“Well, you must admit it’s more imaginative than flowers and chocolate.”

“Sherlock, he’s a _sodding psychopath_!”

“Yes; thank you, for pointing out the glaringly obvious, Lestrade.”

“You’re not seriously going to go, are you?”

“Of course I am. Psychopaths do not generally respond well to rejection.”

“You think he’ll kill John if you don’t turn up?”

Sherlock looked directly into his eyes, utterly serious.

“The man strapped a bomb to a child, Detective Inspector. What do you think?”

SHSHSHSHSHSH

The restaurant was obscenely expensive; all dim lighting and plush cream furniture with more mirrors and chrome fittings than strictly necessary.

“Do you have a reservation, Sir?” The maitre-d purred slightly disdainfully, in an obviously fake French accent.

“Sherlock Holmes. To see Mr Moriarty.” The portly little man’s eyes widened. “At once, sir!” He said, deference and accent going up another notch. “Please, follow me; you have a private alcove for the evening.”

The ‘private alcove’ turned out to be a booth, with a horseshoe-shaped cream sofa curled elegantly around an oval glass table. The soft, intimate lighting gave Moriarty’s grinning features a decidedly demonic cast.

“Sherlock, darling!” He greeted effusively, patting the couch beside himself. “It’s so lovely to see you; please, sit down. I do hope you’re feeling better, after your little… accident.”

Sherlock gave him a cold look and refused the unspoken invitation, slowly and deliberately choosing to sit opposite his enemy.

“My health is none of your concern,” he replied haughtily. “Why did you ask me here?”

Moriarty pouted. “I just wanted to see you; is that a crime? Our first date was so much fun I could hardly wait for the second.”

“You know perfectly well who I want to see, Jim; and I am not your date.”

“I’m wounded, Sherlock,” he mock-pouted. “You didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to. And what is this if not a date? Isn’t this a romantic setting? Fine champagne, wonderful ambience, and the lobster here is to _die_ for. I can always get a reservation at short notice, too; the owner owes me a favour. Little murder I sorted out for him.”

“You should have brought Molly,” the detective said disdainfully. “Sounds like just _her_ kind of evening.”

“But you know I only have eyes for you, dearest. And besides, Don Perignon is wasted on a woman who willingly drinks Lambrini.” He shuddered.

“I had no idea you were so fastidious.”

“Liar.” He pushed a champagne flute over towards Sherlock. “Let’s toast to deception… and deduction, of course.”

“No, thank you.”

“What’s the matter; d’you think I’d stoop so low as to poison _you_?”

“Not me, no. At least, not now. I don’t drink; bad for the brain.”

“You won’t drink alcohol, but you’re quite happy to plaster yourself with nicotine patches and inject cocaine? Rather hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“We all have our vices. Mine is cocaine; yours is mass murder. I know which I prefer.”

Moriarty laughed aloud. “Oh; you are perfect, Sherlock; absolutely perfect.”

“Where is John?”

“Straight to business already? Can’t we just talk? I so enjoy conversations with you; and I know I’m not the only one.”

“Yes, that is true. Every word you say is another piece of evidence to use against you.”

“Please. You’re not recording this conversation; you’d never take the risk. You know I know exactly what you did for your beloved Doctor Watson. He sends his best, by the way.”

“Yes, I can see the swelling under that very professional makeup job. He clearly wasn’t exaggerating about his punching technique.” _Well done, John._ “What did you do, lean too close while you were gloating?”

“Johnny is the tediously moral type, Sherlock. He got _very_ upset when I showed him the tape of your confession.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite control the involuntary tensing of his facial muscles. _If John believed that… I’ve lost him._

“Where is he?” He demanded again.

“Somewhere safe. Somewhere you’ll never be able to trace without me knowing about it. But that’s not the question you should be asking, sweetheart. Go on, ask; I’ve been _so_ looking forward to it.”

“If you already know what I’m going to say, why bother to voice it?”

“Because I asked you to. And I think we both know which of us has the ace up our sleeve.”

“Oh, very well, if we must.” He adopted a bored tone. “What do you want?”

“Ooh, yes; that’s the one. It’s even sweeter than I thought, to see you come to me, practically begging to make me happy. And there are so many things I want from you, Sherlock. So very many. You and I could be something… extraordinary.”

“You want me to join your little organisation? Help you plan out other people’s crimes like a better dressed Jimmy Saville?” Contempt dripped off the words.

“Oh, no; I don’t want you on my side. That would be boring. No, I want you to chase me. I’m just like you, you see; I get bored when things are too easy. The world’s collective police forces are so simple to fool it’s getting embarrassing. I don’t know how you stand working with such mediocrity.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched slightly, his only indication of agreement.

“I want to be pursued by you; because I know that you are capable of catching me. And to think of all that single-minded genius focussed solely on me… mmm… it’s delicious.”

“And what happens to John?”

“Oh; I’m not interested in Johnny; he’s just so painfully ordinary. I only borrowed him to get your attention, and frankly, I need the spare room back. I’ll have him dropped off at Baker Street later.”

“You should bear in mind, though, that I know where you two lovebirds live; and if you happen to upset me by giving up… well. As you know, I have plenty of snipers on my payroll.”

“And if I succeed, and bring you down? What happens then?”

“In the extremely unlikely event of you winning and cornering me, Sherlock, you have my word that John Watson will not be harmed. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The detective half-smiled, eyes cold. “Hope springs eternal.”

“Come on; you don’t mean that. Where would you be without me? I’m the only person in the world who can make your life worth living.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to deny it. “And vice versa,” he replied. “That’s why you orchestrated this great game of ours; the bombings, the puzzles; all to draw me in. Why you made all those overly dramatised threats to ‘burn the heart out’ of me. You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist a challenge like that. And you need the thrill of the chase as much as I.”

“Just so. You are the first – the only- person in the world who could possibly understand me, Sherlock. The only one who can challenge me. My equal; my nemesis. There is only one thing I don’t quite understand.”

“Just the one? Am I so transparent?”

“I’ve spent a long time studying you, Sherlock Holmes. I like to think I’ve got inside your head a little by now. The only thing I never worked out was why you’re not… well, me.”

“Was it something your parents taught you? Your brother? Just something you were born with? Why is it that you put up with the boredom between cases that I know you suffer when you could do what I do and create your own? Why be a detective instead of a criminal?”

Sherlock allowed himself to smile at the elegance of the answer.

“Because of you,” he said simply. “When you murdered Carl Powers, I saw what no one else could. I saw the puzzle; the unknown needing to be resolved into a logical narrative. After that, I was hooked; I have always had something of an addictive personality. If Carl hadn’t died, perhaps I would have been exactly like you.”

“Ohhh… that is beautiful,” Moriarty breathed, genuinely awed. “I created you; and now you will attempt to destroy me. My perfect playmate.”

“Not _attempt_. I will destroy you, sooner or later.”

“I’m looking forward to it already,” Moriarty all but purred.

“Well,” Sherlock announced, placing his palms flat on the table as he stood. “Scintillating as this conversation has been, I should be going. If John sees the flat in the state it’s in, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Are you sure you won’t stay? There is so much more we could say to one another.”

“I think we’ve covered all the salient points. Do enjoy the lobster.”

“Not even a goodnight kiss?”

“Why bother? I’ll be seeing you again _very_ soon.”

“I can’t wait, my dear Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty purred, raising his glass to the departing detective. “I can’t wait.”

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Sherlock threw some money at the cab driver and then bolted for his front door, bounding up the steep stairs three at a time. He opened the door to his flat and stopped dead.

John Watson was standing in the middle of their living room.


	12. Narcolepsy

# Chapter 12: Narcolepsy

 

John woke slowly, head fuzzy with the after-effects of too much sleep. He attempted to pry his eyes open, but found them bleary and crusted over. He also had the dry mouth and headache that suggested dehydration; even in his disorientated state, he recognised the feeling.

Sedatives… _What happened? Who drugged me? And why do I ache all over?_

He attempted to lift his right hand to rub at his eyes… and the combination of the Velcro restraint attaching his wrist to the bed rail and a sharp pain in his knuckles brought it all flooding back.

 _The memory of my fist ploughing into Moriarty’s cheek may well be one of the best ones I’ll ever have. The way he spun round and hit the floor like a mere man, instead of the all-powerful supervillan he wants people to believe he is. I wish Sherlock could have seen that; he would’ve_ loved _it._

_Hmm… don’t think I’ve got any boxer’s fractures. Pity my muscles aren’t back up to full strength yet after the poisoning; I would’ve liked to put a bit more power into it, with the awkward position I was punching from. Probably only soft tissue damage, but I might have bruised the cheekbone._

_Shame his henchmen managed to bundle into the room so fast. If there’s one thing Moriarty needs, it’s a good kicking. Oh, and a really_ world class _psychiatrist._

_The goons certainly weren’t trying to be gentle; I’ve got bruises on my bruises. Gave as good as I got, though, before one of them got in a lucky hit to my bad shoulder. Hurt like getting shot again; after that, all I remember is one of them stabbing me with a syringe before it all went black._

_Even if Moriarty decides to take some kind of painful revenge, it was worth it. As long as it’s on me, and not Sherlock._

_Oh, God: Sherlock. Sitting in a cell, while Sally and Anderson look smug and celebrate because they ‘_ always knew… _’ The stupid, narrow-minded, arrogant sods; just because he’s not like them they think he must be evil, even when all he does is help people. And poor Lestrade, who believed in him, will be lucky if he keeps his job._

 _Sherlock won’t survive five minutes in prison. He’ll either tell some axe murderer his wife’s cheating on him with the milkman and get himself stabbed with a sharpened toothbrush or go totally round the bend because there’s no work and his brain’s rotting. He might even…_ No _. Not even going to contemplate_ that _._

_I want to go home, to severed heads in the fridge and no milk and the sound of a violin being tortured until 4am and ridiculous chases across London after serial killers and that special warm kind of silence that comes after a long case…_

_But just like when I got back from Afghanistan, when I get out of here, home won’t be there any more._

_Sherlock won’t be there any more._

SHSHSHSHSHSH

A nurse came in to check him over for any negative reaction to the sedative; she’d only been gone a few minutes when Moriarty himself whirled into the room, clutching a tie in each hand.

“Johnny!” he trilled, as if nothing had happened. “I sooo need your help; I have a date with Sherlock tonight and…”

“A _date_?” John interrupted. “You’ve just had him done for murder! What are you going to do, turn up in his cell with a takeaway?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; Mycroft fabricated enough evidence to get the charges dropped within hours. Big Brother is always watching; and he’s also very predictable when it comes to Sherlock. I’m certain he _loathes_ being looked after,” he added with distinct satisfaction.

_Sherlock’s… free?_

_When I next see Mycroft, I am going to shake his hand. At least someone’s been keeping an eye on his idiot of a brother while I’ve been stuck here; and Sherlock would never even consider saying thank you himself._

“I’ve got us a reservation at this little French place. It’s very swish; bit pricey, but Sherlock’s worth it, isn’t he?” His tone was just a bit too smug, and dripping with saccharine.

 _Is he actually… showing off? Trying to make me_ jealous _, by taking Sherlock to some posh restaurant, when we usually eat for free somewhere he’s owed a favour? He really is a nutter. Sherlock doesn’t eat enough to keep a cat alive; and he certainly doesn’t care how much anything costs._

“So, I need to look my absolute best. Tell me; which do you think? Navy blue, or Imperial purple?” He held each up to his throat in turn, to show him the effect.

“You must be desperate, if you’re asking me,” John commented. “I’m hardly the height of fashion.”

“But you know what Sherlock likes; and it’s him I need to impress. He does wear a lot of blue; it brings out his eyes beautifully, but I wore it to the pool, so he might think I’m repeating myself. The purple feels a bit too dark, like it’ll get lost in the mood lighting. You know how changeable I am; I just _can’t_ make up my mind.”

“Shame you had Connie Prince murdered,” he replied coldly. “I’m sure she could’ve told you exactly what to wear.”

“Come on, John; I didn’t _have_ her murdered. I just gave Raoul a little assistance in not getting caught; it’s hardly the same thing. Just tell me which one he’ll like… pretty please?” He wheedled.

“Sherlock couldn’t care less what you wear, Jim. You might as well toss a coin.”

“I never leave anything to mere _chance_.” He looked revolted by the concept.

“I’ll bear that in mind. How’s your face feeling? Looks a bit puffy.”

Moriarty’s eyes went cold. “Plastered with men’s makeup, thanks to you, Doctor,” he bit out.

“Any time,” John acknowledged dryly. “Hurts like hell, I imagine?”

“You wish,” the master criminal informed him with contempt. “The cheekbone is barely even bruised; certainly far less so than you are after that foolish little display.”

“I’ll be sure to try harder next time.”

“You just keep telling yourself that.” He sighed, reverting back to his favoured excessively camp persona. “Well, I think I’m going to have to go with the purple. Dear Sherlock does so loathe repetition, and I don’t want us to spend the whole of dinner arguing.” He tossed the blue tie casually into the corner of the room and looped the purple one loosely around his neck.

“Good luck,” John told him, unable to contain a smile. _Sherlock can argue with the_ wall _; there is no way a conversation between them can be anything but verbal warfare._

Moriarty’s answering grin sobered the doctor instantly; it positively radiated malice, even before he dipped a hand into the pocket of his designer suit and produced another syringe.

“Thank you,” he purred. “I’ll pass him your very warmest regards.”

John tugged ineffectually at the restraints securing him to the bed, struggling desperately despite the aches in his body and the sharp stabbing pain that shot through his re-injured left shoulder with every movement.

_Oh, no, not again; what is it with Moriarty and needles? At this rate, I’m going to develop a phobia. Yet another psychological condition I could do without._

“Repeating yourself again, Moriarty?” He asked scathingly.

“Not exactly,” he replied casually, reaching for John’s IV line as he uncapped the hypodermic. “You know how it is on a date, Johnny; good food, fine champagne, stimulating conversation… I just don’t want you to wait up.” He injected the clear fluid into the plastic tubing with distinct satisfaction, leaning over his helpless captive to whisper a particularly disturbing parting shot.

“After all, you never know where it could lead, do you? Sweet dreams.”

The last thought John remembered crossing his mind before the black fog of sedation overcame him was an anguished one.

_Oh, God, Sherlock… be careful…_

SHSHSHSHSHSH

When John awoke, it was to a very different set of surroundings. In fact, he was feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu.

He was, unless this was some weird dream or hallucination caused by the drugs he’d been given, sitting in the back of a black cab, driving through the streets of London at night. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn when he set out for Sarah’s before the pool incident; even his favourite leather jacket had been returned.

 _The last time I woke up like this, I already had a bomb strapped to my torso. There is_ no way _this can_ possibly _be good._

“Awake at last, are you?” The cabbie commented cheerfully. “Let me know if you feel queasy; I’d rather not have to have the cab cleaned, even though your mates gave me that nice tip.”

“Mates?” John managed, attempting to get his brain up to speed.

“Yeah; they explained about that spiked drink you got by accident. Best if you just get home and sleep it off; same thing happened to my brother in law on his stag night. Well, with Barry it wasn’t so much an accident as the best man getting pissed and deciding it would be funny to knock him out and handcuff him to the top deck of the night bus. Had to be cut loose with an angle grinder; and we never did find out what happened to his shoes.”

“What… where did you pick me up? Did you get a good look at them?”

“Well… not really. They were both big blokes, but the light wasn’t that good… it was outside a pub on Ottoman Road. They gave me a hundred quid up front to see you safe to Baker Street; said your flatmate would be there to help you in. We’re only about ten minutes away.”

_Either this is another cabbie on Moriarty’s books who happens to be a good liar, or they drove me to a pub and paid an innocent one not to mind when they stuffed an unconscious man in the back. Either way, I can’t attack him while he’s driving._

_Hang on, he said they told him Sherlock would be in… was that just to convince him to take me or will he really be there?_

_It’s only been… what, two weeks? But it feels like forever since we were last in the same room. Well, I say room; it was the pool… Flickering light and red laser sights and the smell of chlorine and Moriarty’s smile and Sherlock’s fear and oh god, I couldn’t move…_

“Good job you woke up, really,” The driver interrupted John’s flashback cheerfully. “What was the number again? Two hundred and something?”

“Two twenty one B,” John answered, distractedly, checking all of his own pockets to see what, if anything, Moriarty had left him with.

_Keys… good job, don’t want to give Mrs Hudson a heart attack… loose change, half a packet of mints… wallet, still with very little actual money in it, but all my bank cards and driving licence are there. Oyster card… receipts… fluff…_

Last of all, he checked the inside pocket of the jacket, which he never used, and stilled in shock as he found something that felt very much like…

_My phone… He gave me back my phone! I can ring Sherlock!_

Suddenly his fingers felt unbearably clumsy as he fumbled for the power button, hope flaring in his chest…

Which was abruptly snuffed out by the irritating chirp that signalled the phone was out of battery.

John gritted his teeth against the frankly frightening level of profanity attempting to escape from his mouth.

 _The smug, self satisfied little bastard… Bugger Sherlock; when I get my hands on him Moriarty’s going to wish he’d never been born. And I_ am _going to get my hands on him… oh, yes…_

_But in the mean time, I have to wait until I can get to the flat and plug my phone in before I ring anyone. Come to think of it, where the bloody hell is my phone charger anyway? Sherlock nicks my phone so often he’s taken to leaving it in the living room. Last time I had to go looking for it, the damn thing turned up buried under a pile of old newspapers from 1891 and a stuffed badger._

“This it, then, mate? The cabbie called back.

“Um… Yes; just here on the right.”

“You want me to ring the bell, so your flatmate can give you a hand?”

“No; no, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure,” the cabbie capitulated cheerfully, unlocking the rear door for him. “Night, then; hope you feel better soon.”

“Me, too,” John commented, as he levered himself out of the cab with a wince. His bruises had stiffened up while he was out cold and his shoulder was throbbing; whatever Moriarty had given him, it wasn’t any kind of painkiller.

He staggered over to his front door and despite the urgency of the situation, it took a couple of tries to get it open. For a moment he thought Mrs Hudson had changed the locks.

He couldn’t take the time to appreciate the familiar hallway, where he and Sherlock had once leaned shoulder to shoulder and giggled about Afghanistan and serial killers. Instead he concentrated on getting himself coordinated enough to stumble up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister as his weak right leg protested.

Stepping through the door to the living room, cluttered as always with the detritus of Sherlock’s experiments, John Watson stopped for a deep breath.

_The smell of home… musty old books and chemicals and unwashed socks with just a hint of decomposing flesh…_

“Sherlock?” He called out. “Sherlock!”

With increasing desperation, John checked every room for some sign of his flatmate; he must have been there recently, judging by the mess, but Sherlock certainly wasn’t present now.

_Oh, gods; where is he? What’s Moriarty doing to him?_

As if in answer, John heard the front door slam shut and the familiar sound of impossibly long limbs bounding up the stairs. He turned to face the door, hardly daring to believe it…

Until it burst open, and Sherlock Holmes was standing before him.

The pair simply stared at one another for a long moment, each drinking in the sight of the other.

_That look on Sherlock’s face… I’ve never seen that one before. He looks… uncertain, almost nervous. He’s not sure what Moriarty told me or how much of it I believed, so he doesn’t know what to say. Sherlock, for once, is waiting for a cue from me to tell him what to do._

_And I know exactly the words he needs to hear._

John cleared his throat and broke the silence.

“So. Did you remember to get the milk, then? And the beans?”

The genuine, joyful smile of gratitude and affection that spread across Sherlock’s usually austere features almost made it worth getting kidnapped.


	13. Bruises

**Chapter 13: Bruises**

It was a very rare occurrence for Sherlock Holmes to not know what to say.

Choosing to remain silent was quite different; he did that all the time, either because he was thinking or just annoyed by the inanity of the question. To have his admittedly rudimentary social skills so utterly outstripped by the situation was singularly disturbing; and it had been happening with ever greater frequency since John Watson limped into his life.

_“That thing you did… that you offered to do… that was… good…”_

Despite the thousands of words in his vast vocabulary, all he could do was stare… and wait for John to give him some data to work with.

_He looks terrible. Thin and rumpled and exhausted, like when I first met him but without the tan. He’s favouring his right leg again, and the way he holds his left arm suggests his shoulder’s hurting too…_

_It’s my fault._

_Will he still be my friend, after this? Will he start to interrogate me about the murder straight away? Will he blame me for his poisoning? Will he decide he’d prefer to be normal than around me?_

The first clue to the answer was the slight softening of John’s eyes, the infinitesimal release of tension in his stance before he began to speak.

“So. Did you remember to get the milk, then?” John asked, as if nothing of significance had occurred. “And the beans?”

Sherlock very rarely smiled without intending to. Now, his muscles moved entirely without conscious thought.

_I should have known that not even Moriarty could intimidate my John. He really is invaluable._

He took two swift steps forward and wrapped his long, bony arms around his flatmate for one brief, awkward moment before pulling away just as suddenly. The surprised Doctor barely had time to tense in response to the unexpected contact.

“Sorry, John,” he said, still smiling, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners. “I can go now if you like.”

His flatmate found a fond grin creeping over his own features. “Nah; that’s ok, Sherlock. Let’s order pizza and see if there’s any crap reality telly on tonight.”

“Sounds good.” _In fact, it sounds… perfect._

SHSHSHSHSHSH

It was some time later, when they were sprawled side by side on the sofa amid the detritus of crusts and pizza boxes, before either of them mentioned the events of the past couple of weeks.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it, then?” Sherlock enquired, with deceptively mild curiosity.

“Did what?”

“The murder I confessed to.”

“Don’t need to,” John replied calmly. “I already know the answer.”

“You know?” Sherlock asked, surprised. “For certain?”

“Yep,” he asserted confidently.

“How? Did Moriarty…”

“No; I made a deduction. I’m told it’s a science.”

“And how did you reach your scientific conclusion?”

“I observed.”

“Really? You are learning, after all. Come on, then; take me through it.”

“Moriarty showed me the tape of your interview with the police.”

“Ah. And what did you deduce from that?”

“You didn’t do it.”

“Watching me confess convinced you I was innocent?”

“Well, not in so many words. When that policewoman suggested you fancied me, you looked at the camera. So I knew that you knew I was watching, ‘cos you never react like that when people assume we’re… well, you know, a couple.”

“Adequately reasoned; but not conclusive proof of either innocence or guilt.”

“Well, you also said I made you better, and I had already warned you not to kill anyone for my sake.”

“And that’s all it took, to prove to you that I did not kill the other John Watson?” Sherlock asked, incredulously.

“Yes. Why; did I miss something?”

“You were remarkably easily convinced. That’s not nearly enough for a solid deduction; I would need significantly more data to decide on a suspect’s guilt or innocence. Everyone else was positively eager to believe my guilt with the evidence provided; even Lestrade.

“Well, clearly, they don’t know you as well as I do.”

“Are you quite certain of that?”

“Positive. You’re not such a bastard that you could kill an innocent man and not feel even the slightest bit guilty about it.”

“You have too much faith in me, John,” he replied, distantly.

“Someone’s got to.” He nudged Sherlock affectionately with his shoulder. “There’s a good man in there somewhere, Sherlock, even if he can be bloody hard to find at times.”

For several seconds, the detective sat in stunned silence.

_John Watson, the best human being I know, thinks I am a good man._

_He’s wrong. Totally, and utterly wrong._

“Sherlock? Are you actually speechless?”

“I am… not accustomed…” he almost stammered. “You… that is, I…”

_I can’t make myself disappoint him now; not after all he’s suffered for my sake. Once was more than enough._

He swallowed hard, and squared his shoulders before continuing rather more articulately. “I admired your handiwork, when I met with Moriarty. The swelling was very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“I would appreciate those punching lessons you mentioned on the phone, once you are feeling better,” he added, somewhat stiffly.

“I’m _fine_ , Sherlock,” John insisted. “Moriarty keeps a very competent medical staff for his hostages.”

“You have an unusual clinical definition of ‘fine’, Doctor,” the detective replied sharply. “Your limp has returned, you are excessively tired, have lost approximately twelve pounds in weight and are still suffering from residual muscle aches and weakness. Not to mention the growing pain in your bad shoulder.”

John rolled it carefully with a wince. “Yes, well; botulism poisoning isn’t exactly the common cold. I’ll go and get a few blood tests run in the morning, to be on the safe side. Just in case Moriarty decided to inject any more nasty surprises.”

“A wise precaution.”

“It does feel too easy, doesn’t it? Moriarty went to all that effort to kidnap me, strapped me to a bomb, poisoned me, held me hostage for a fortnight and then suddenly I wake up in the back of a cab as if none of it ever happened. I mean, I know he said he was changeable, but that’s more like multiple personality disorder.” The note of worry in his voice was only crudely covered by his irascibility.

“He let you go when he got bored with you, John. You were his insurance, in case I brought some kind of surprise he wasn’t expecting to the pool. He needed to be in control, no matter the situation. To… taste… the power he had over me.”

“But if that’s why he did it, surely he would have kept me captive as long as possible?” John’s brow furrowed as he attempted to follow Sherlock’s line of thought, as it always did. The sight created a peculiar warm sensation in the detective’s abdomen.

“The objective of the exercise was to make me pursue him, with everything I have. He knew that continuing to hold you would make me hesitant, in case he decided to kill you when I got close. Besides, after my… minor error… he probably concluded that I work better with your assistance.”

“Minor error? You mean the overdose? Bloody hell; he let me go so I could babysit you? Keep you healthy enough to chase him, the masochistic bastard?”

“Among other things. It is a task you perform exceptionally well; I’ve told you before that I’m lost without my blogger.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock…”

“Then what is the point? You want Moriarty to be interested in you personally?”

““No, of course I don’t; the man’s a psycho…” His voice trailed off as the previous sentence finally registered in his mind. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Of course I missed you, John,” he said matter of factly.

John’s features softened; he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Really?”

“Oh, yes; your absence was very strongly felt, I assure you. Several times, I must admit, I even had to make my own tea.”

John’s widening eyes met Sherlock’s usually cold ones… and saw the spark of amusement dancing in them.

“Oh, I am going to get you for that, Sherlock Holmes!” He grabbed the first thing that came to hand – a union jack cushion - and started to flail it indiscriminately at his flatmate.

“John!” Sherlock protested indignantly, holding up his arms in self-defence, even as he twisted to avoid the blows. He barely noticed that he was smiling involuntarily again.

“I’ll give you tea, you daft lanky nutcase!” John continued his assault, leaning further over Sherlock. Inevitably, the pair tumbled off the sofa in a tangle of limbs, giggling uncontrollably as they tussled like puppies.

The giggling was probably the reason that not even Sherlock heard the footsteps thundering up the stairs until the door slammed open and a distinctly familiar voice shouted.

“Police! Hands where I can… Bloody hell!”

Both of them looked up instinctively as the absurdity of the situation crept slowly over them.

Lestrade was standing in the doorway, jaw dropped, shock and the beginnings of embarrassment written all over his face. John was sprawled on top of Sherlock, pinning his arms to the carpet, both of them dishevelled, flushed and panting. Anyone walking in on them in that state, police officer or not, would draw exactly the same conclusion about what they were doing.

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock said breathlessly, as if the situation were a perfectly normal one. “As you can see, John is home. I suggest you go and contact Harry; I’m certain his statement can wait for the morning.”

“Wha… um, I mean…” The stunned Detective Inspector stuttered like a schoolboy, cheeks flaming scarlet. “Yes… err… nice to, er, see you… I’ll be… going now… bye…”

“Shut the door on your way out,” Sherlock added.

“It’s not what it looks like,” John called hopelessly after him. The thud of the door closing was his only reply; he shoved himself off Sherlock to sit back against the sofa with a groan.

“Oh, god; now the whole of Scotland Yard is going to think we’re sleeping together.”

“You should be flattered, John,” his flatmate replied, still sprawled on his back on the floor. “I’m told I am not physically unattractive.”

“That is not the point, Sherlock; half the people we know already think we’re dating. Donovan and Anderson and the rest are going to be unbearable.”

“Anderson is always unbearable; Sally hardly less so. Who cares what they think?”

“You really want to give them more ammunition to insult you?”

“Well, they both remain convinced that I am a murderer; in comparison to that, being accused of intimacy with you is a pleasantry.”

John couldn’t help but conceed the point; but Sherlock was no longer listening. John’s shirt had lifted enough to show the beginnings of some very colourful bruising forming on his abdomen.

“You’re hurt,” Sherlock stated tactlessly.

“What… oh, that.” John smoothed his shirt down to cover it. “It’s nothing serious, Sherlock; just a few bruises. I’ll be stiff for a couple of days, but there’s no real damage.”

“Did he… Were you… treated badly?” He asked hesitantly; dreading the answer but incapable of remaining ignorant.

“There were no thumbscrews or red hot irons involved, if that’s what you’re thinking,” John was quick to reassure him. “I only saw Moriarty a few times; most of the time I was left alone. The only thing I was in danger of dying of there was boredom.”

“I think I’d prefer torture,” Sherlock replied, not entirely joking.

“Yes; you certainly proved that, considering what you got up to without me.”

“Are you planning to start shouting now?” He asked, almost plaintively.

John yawned. “Not tonight; my brain’s only running on three cylinders. I want to be firing on all of ‘em before I start on you; god knows I’m going to need it.”

“Quite correct. John?”

“Yes?”

“You are aware, that if circumstances ever arise that demand it… I am very capable of killing.”

Their eyes met; Sherlock knew John understood the silent but nonetheless eloquent sentiment he was trying to express.

_I would not hesitate to kill for you, just as you did for me._

“Most people are, in extreme situations,” he replied, understanding and gratitude warming the words. “They just don’t realise it until they have no other choice; I certainly didn’t.”

“If, hypothetically,” Sherlock ventured, “I told you I did kill the other John Watson, to protect you…”

“I’d hit you now and move out tomorrow,” John answered flippantly. “Glad I don’t have to, though; I am knackered. You mind if I turn in?”

“Not at all. You might, though; Mycroft’s people took all your things when you ‘died’. They’re still sitting in boxes on your bedroom floor, even your bedsheets.”

“Urgh,” he groaned, rubbing his neck. “Just when I was starting to like the man. I can’t be arsed buggering about tonight; I’ll just sleep in my clothes and worry about it tomorrow.”

“Take my room. I’m not intending to use it tonight; not when I am finally free to start the chase in earnest.”

“You sure? You’ve been in hospital twice in the past couple of weeks…”

“Compared to you, John, I am the picture of health. Go on; I have research to do.”

“Is this research going to involve that bloody violin?” He asked suspiciously. “Because if it is, I’m really chucking it out of the window this time...”

“No violin; you have my word.”

“All right, then. Thanks.” John levered himself up from the sofa with his good arm and swayed alarmingly. Sherlock’s arms snaked out to steady him.

“Careful, John; you don’t want a concussion on top of everything else,” Sherlock chided, his hands lingering on his flatmate’s waist a fraction longer than strictly neccesary.

“You’re one to talk,” the doctor replied, with yet another yawn. “I’m fine, Sherlock; I just want to crash out for a nice solid twelve hours.”

The detective released him. “See you in the morning, then, John.”

“Yeah; night, Sherlock.” As soon as he’d pulled the bedroom door closed, the detective began to minutely examine the mobile he’d lifted from John’s pocket as he steadied him.

_Out of battery… devious. I never thought I’d be happy about that particular trait, coming from Moriarty._

_At least, thanks to Mycroft, I know where John’s phone charger is._


	14. Epilogue I: Shock

# Epilogue I: Shock

 

Greg Lestrade made his way back down the stairs almost as fast as he’d climbed them, wishing there was some way to erase the last five minutes from his memory.

Of _course_ he’d asked Mrs Hudson to phone him when Sherlock got home, to discuss their next move in the Moriarty case; because it was taken as read that Sherlock himself wouldn’t. And when he finally got there after struggling through London’s near permanent gridlock to hear raised voices and sounds of a struggle followed by the loud thud of a body hitting the floorboards, of _course_ he’d assumed the young detective was being attacked. He’d raced up the stairs, ready to take on the assailant like any good copper would… like any good _man_ would...

 _I really should have remembered that this is_ Sherlock _I’m dealing with and not charged in without knocking and seen Sherlock pinned to the carpet by John and looking_ very _happy about it…_

“Is everything all right, Inspector?” Mrs Hudson asked anxiously, sticking her head out of her door as he passed. “I heard an awful thump just now…”

“Err… yes, Mrs Hudson, everything’s… fine. Better than fine, actually; John’s back.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful news! Poor Sherlock’s been such a wreck without him. I’ll just nip up and see them; I’ve missed our little chats…”

“No!” He said, much too quickly _. I refuse to let a nice old lady like Mrs Hudson see what I just did._ “No; I um, think you should leave it for the morning. When I went in they were…” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Getting reacquainted.”

“Oh! I knew it!” She declared, clapping her hands triumphantly. “I knew they were just being bashful; a landlady can tell these things, you know.” She dropped her voice to a knowing stage whisper. “Got an eyeful, did you?”

“More than I ever wanted to see,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“That’ll teach you to knock, dear. You look a bit peaky; would you like a cup of tea? My aunt always swore by it for anyone who’s had a bit of a shock…”

“No, thanks, Mrs Hudson. I should be getting home, anyway; been working double shifts since all this started.”

_And, knowing Sherlock, I’m going to be working them for a lot longer just to catch up with the paperwork from this one… Especially with that memory distracting me…_

_Oh, god; I think I need to wash my eyeballs._

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Mycroft Holmes was very satisfied by the turn of events.

He received immediate notification from the twenty-four hour surveillance team when John Watson emerged from a black cab outside 221b Baker street, followed within minutes by the lanky form of his flatmate.

_My calculations were evidently correct; Moriarty wants to play with Sherlock, not to destroy him. For the present, at least._

_It seems that Doctor Watson has become essential to my brother; a quite unprecedented situation. He’s never taken to someone quite like this before. And it also presents some new and unique difficulties. If John should die, or leave of his own will, Sherlock will be devastated. He could very easily return to his old habits of drug use and depression and overdose himself; accidentally or otherwise._

_I suspect some intervention will be required to prevent him doing anything too unforgivable to drive the poor Doctor away… But not tonight; I don’t want to intrude on their little reunion._

Sherlock wasn’t present when Mycroft arrived at eight am the following morning, although there were a number of subtle clues that suggested he intended to return soon. Not least the fact that he had neither hailed a cab nor attempted to shake off his surveillance detail. Holmes the Elder was therefore waiting comfortably in Sherlock’s somewhat battered leather armchair when his brother stepped through the door with a Tesco carrier bag in his hand.

“My, my, Sherlock. Domesticated at last,” Mycroft said slyly, with the smile all older siblings perfect in order to embarrass the younger to maximum effect.  

“What the hell do you want, Mycroft?” He demanded, depositing the bag in the small available space between experiments on the kitchen table. He did not, however, forget to keep his voice down and thus avoided waking John. _Coming from Sherlock, the very height of consideration. How interesting. Could it be that he feels… guilty?_

“You needn’t worry about your friend Doctor Watson, Sherlock; he’s sleeping quite peacefully. I don’t anticipate him waking for another half-hour at least.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” Sherlock peered silently into his bedroom for a few seconds to deduce where John was in his sleep cycle. When he emerged, he looked unusually smug. “Ten to fifteen minutes, maximum,” he stated.

“Indeed?” _It always helps in these situations to let him think he’s scored a point; eight to twelve minutes was my actual assessment, but he doesn’t need to know that._ “But then again, I suppose you must be more familiar with your flatmate’s sleeping patterns than I.”

“Tell me what you want and then get out, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Haven’t you interfered in my life enough lately?”

“Must there be something I want? Could I not simply be here to offer comfort to my younger brother and his friend after their terrible ordeal?”

The withering look Sherlock awarded that idea with was one of his best.

“Oh, dear, Sherlock; as Mummy used to say, one day the wind will change and your face will stick like that.”

“Sherlock? John?” Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, her voice getting louder as she climbed. “Sherlock, love, was that you I heard? Tell me if I’m interrupting; I don’t want a shock like that poor policeman got last night at my age…”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother. _I did think Lestrade looked a little disturbed when he left last night; I assumed at the time it was merely John’s reappearance that had shocked him. I wonder what precisely he saw…_

The landlady poked her head cautiously around the still ajar door. “Oh; I didn’t realise you had company, dear.”

“He was just leaving,” the younger brother said firmly.

“Now, Sherlock; remember your manners,” Mycroft chided gently, with a rueful smile for the old lady. “Such a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was just telling me what wonderful care you’ve been taking of him since his illness.”

She blushed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s really nothing; I’m only the landlady, after all, not his housekeeper.”

“A job description you have far exceeded. Brilliant as he is, my brother does need looking after.”

“Don’t you worry, dear; between us, me and John will make sure Sherlock’s properly taken care of. Having a lie in, is he?”

“He’ll be up in a few minutes. I’m certain he would appreciate some coffee.”

“Well, just this once, dear; it’s not every day you come back from the dead, after all. Can I get you boys anything while I’m here?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Hudson; I really must be getting to the office soon. I just wanted to pop in and tell John how glad I am that he survived this unpleasant incident unscathed.”

“ _Unscathed_?” Sherlock hissed. “He was _poisoned_ , Mycroft; he’s limping again, he’s lost over twelve pounds, his bad shoulder is much worse than normal and the bruising on his chest alone will take _weeks_ to fade…”

“But his heart is still beating, exactly where it’s supposed to be, Sherlock. Compared to what could have been, _Doctor_ John Watson is in remarkably good health.” _As opposed to the other John Watson, who is currently lying in St Bartholomew’s morgue._

The glare the unspoken implication induced on Sherlock’s face was a particularly fearsome one, which persisted throughout Mrs Hudson’s putterings in the kitchen.

“Shall I take the coffee in to him, Sherlock, dear, or would you rather do that yourself?” She asked indulgently.

At that precise moment, John staggered out of Sherlock’s bedroom, wrapped haphazardly in a dressing gown several inches too long and much too tight for him, and limped in the direction of the bathroom.

Mycroft raised a perfectly calculated eyebrow and smiled that ‘humiliate the younger sibling’ smile again at the sight. _Nine minutes; Sherlock will be annoyed to be incorrect. Although he is unusually unaffected by John’s appropriation of his favourite dressing gown; he was always so possessive as a child._

“Just leave it near the kettle, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock informed her, his glare actually intensifying as it turned back to his brother. “He’ll be there in approximately two and a half minutes.”

Even the slightly batty landlady couldn’t miss the sudden increase in tension in the room; although, of course, she misinterpreted it.

“Right you are, dear,” she said, with a slightly nervous glance at Mycroft, as if she expected him to be shocked by the emergence of a mostly asleep, half-dressed man from his brother’s bedroom before eight thirty in the morning. “I’ll leave you boys in peace; I’m just downstairs if you want anything.”

_Ah, the small mind of the average human being. As if it wasn’t obvious that Sherlock hasn’t so much as closed his eyes in at least forty eight hours; and certainly hasn’t spent the night in any kind of intimate embrace with his long-suffering flatmate._

_More’s the pity; he could do with a hobby that doesn’t involve corpses…_

SHSHSHSHSHSH

 

The usual morning briefing on the progress of the Moriarty case, as they’d taken to calling it in the absence of one of John’s quirky blog titles, tended to rile Sally Donovan into a veritable fire-breathing dragon. The news was never good; and the constant reminder of Sherlock’s blatant deception, not to mention his effortless evasion of a richly deserved murder conviction, drove her to new heights of outraged irritation. In fact, she was beginning to remind herself uncomfortably of her mother.

_And as if that wasn’t enough, I have to watch everyone badger poor Philip because the forensics reports are taking so bloody long; it’s not as if it’s his fault there’s a backlog and there was a paperwork mix up that put our case to the bottom of the pile. Besides, we’re both so busy cleaning up the freak’s mess we haven’t managed so much as a snog for a fortnight…_

Aware that she was staring at Anderson, and that she was sitting in a crowded room with a lot of coppers who’d spent time with Sherlock Holmes, Sally swiftly derailed that train of thought. She turned to attend to Lestrade, who was opening the briefing by calling out over the hubbub.

“All right, you lot; listen up. We have a development; and, for a change, it’s a good one. John Watson has turned up alive and well.”

The room rang with a cheer; smiles broke out all round. John’s quiet, unassuming good nature, as well as his occasional ability to rein in the Great Consulting Detective, had quickly made him much more popular with the police than his eccentric flatmate.

 _Not that_ that’s _saying much; there are_ serial killers _who are more popular around here than Sherlock Holmes. At least they don’t keep turning up to insult us every week or so._

_He’s really alive… it worked, then. The freak murdered an innocent man because another psycho told him he’d kill John if he didn’t. I bet he hasn’t even asked himself if it was worth it._

_I hope this finally teaches John what he’s been living with; maybe he’ll actually listen to me and take up fishing… or at least move out of that flat before he really does get killed._

“The one in the morgue, or the freak’s pet?” Donovan asked snidely, in an effort to remind them just what the cost of John’s freedom had been.

“ _Doctor_ Watson, Donovan,” Lestrade growled, “and he’s coming in later today to give his statement. If anyone’s blameless in all of this, it’s him; so if he walks out of the interview, I’ll have you buried in paperwork for a month.”

“Me? Why am _I_ the one taking his statement?”

“Because I’ve got to try and weasel one out of Sherlock; d’you _really_ want to swap?”

Sally shut her mouth very quickly. _I’ll take the apprentice over the master any day._

“Did Watson escape, or did they let him go?” Hopkins, an earnest young DC who rather admired Sherlock, asked curiously.

“Don’t know. Looked fairly healthy to me; but we’ll have to ask him.”

“You actually saw him? When? Where?” Donovan asked, sitting bolt upright. _John’s free and he didn’t come straight to us? Doesn’t he know what’s happened? The freak can’t have rubbed off on him this quickly, surely…_

“I dropped by Baker Street on my way home last night,” Lestrade replied, shiftily.

“And you didn’t question him?” She asked incredulously.

“The poor bloke’s been a hostage for a fortnight; have a bit of compassion. Besides, him and Sherlock were… busy.” His hesitation over the last word sent her eyebrows shooting towards her hairline.

“Busy? Doing what?” Anderson asked. “They weren’t murdering someone else, were they?” He sounded unusually keen on the idea.

“No, of course not!” Lestrade all but shouted. “Don’t be thick, Anderson; d’you really think I’dve waited this long to tell anyone about a murder?”

“So what was so important? They certainly weren’t shagging over the kitchen table.”

Donovan pulled a face as the rest of the room sniggered. _That’s just not natural; Sherlock and sex, no matter who it’s with, do not belong in the same dictionary, let alone the same sentence._

The smiles faded from the assorted coppers’ faces as their DI coughed awkwardly, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

“No…” Anderson trailed off. “You can’t be serious…”

Sally had really thought that as a Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police who’d investigated more murders than most people ate hot dinners, not to mention the father of two teenage girls, her boss would have grown out of blushing like an adolescent. Apparently not.

 _Oh… my… god… Sherlock Holmes… urgh_ …

Lestrade couldn’t seem to make his mouth move to deny it. The silence was enough evidence for the collective minds of the fifteen other police officers in the room, who were, to a man, staring at him open-mouthed like baby birds waiting to be fed.

Anderson turned faintly green and stumbled into a chair, swallowing hard.

“You poor bastard,” someone muttered.

“What they get up to in their own flat is absolutely _not_ something we need to know, think or talk about, _especially_ in the middle of a murder investigation,” Lestrade declared firmly, his authority somewhat diminished by the fact his face was approximately the colour of a beetroot. “And _definitely_ not anything I am going to describe in detail.”

Another of the younger DCs called out. “Oh, come on, Sir; you can’t drop a bombshell like that and not expand on it! Were they really doing it?”

“Shut it, Bradstreet; I don’t want to know,” said Anderson, looking distinctly nauseous.

“Was it something kinky?” Briggs chipped in. “I bet it was; Sherlock’s got to be a bit perverted.”

“And anyone willing to shack up with him isn’t?” Donovan interjected caustically. “Please, at least tell me you didn’t have to see them naked; because I think that’s cause for some serious emotional counselling…”

“No I did not!” Lestrade denied hotly. “They were… kissing. In the living room. That’s all.”

There was a long pause as each of them tried to picture the cold, asexual self-professed sociopath known as Sherlock Holmes actually kissing someone.

 _That was a mental image I did_ not _need; it’s just too disturbing. I knew Watson had to be a bit mental to live with the man, but to actually_ sleep _with him? That’s an automatic straitjacket in my book._

 _It also means that_ Sherlock Holmes _, possibly_ the most _unsexy individual who ever lived,_ including _Anne Widdecombe, is seeing more action than I am._

_That’s it. Tonight Philip is coming back to my place and his wife can think whatever she bloody well likes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone from outside the UK who doesn’t know who Anne Widdecombe is, trust me, you do not want to know.


	15. Epilogue II: Convalescence

# Epilogue II: Convalescence

 

_Returning from the dead is… well, strange,_ John decided, feeling slightly bemused.

After falling into Sherlock’s bed and immediately passing out, he’d had his best night of sleep in years. Not a single nightmare, not a twinge from either his leg or his shoulder was enough to disturb him. When John finally regained consciousness he felt like a zombie, barely even noticing the unfamiliar surroundings as he levered himself out of bed and pulled on Sherlock’s favourite blue silk dressing gown to limp to the bathroom.

Making his way to the kitchen in the primal, instinctive search for coffee, he blinked his bleary eyes enough to register that there was a steaming mug freshly made and waiting by the kettle.

Fuzzy as his mind was at the moment, John recognised that this was not a normal occurrence in a kitchen that tended to contain more dismembered human body parts than actual food. He’d learned the hard way to treat everything he hadn’t made himself with extreme caution.

He turned round to ask Sherlock if there was anything fatally wrong with the coffee, and spotted not only his flatmate, looking unnaturally neat considering he hadn’t slept, but also the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes. The brothers were ignoring him, each staring at the other with characteristically dissimilar expressions on their faces.

_Oh, no… Mycroft’s_ smiling _at Sherlock; who looks ready to throttle him with his bare hands. I am not awake enough for one of their bickering matches. God I need caffeine_.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft acknowledged him first. “You are feeling better, I trust.”

“Err…” he managed, barely more than a grunt.

“Mrs Hudson made the coffee, John,” Sherlock informed him casually. “It’s quite safe.”

John seized it in relief and downed the whole mug of scalding liquid in one swallow; a useful skill he’d developed as a junior doctor on the night shift. And then the reality of the situation sank in as the caffeine started to hit his system. He’d just stumbled out of Sherlock’s bedroom, half asleep, dressed in his boxer shorts and an old t-shirt with Sherlock’s ill fitting dressing gown thrown over the top. And there in front of him was Sherlock’s equally intelligent and perceptive brother in one of his ubiquitous three-piece suits.  

_I really, really hope he’s not going to read too much into this…_ He wrapped the dressing gown around himself self-consciously and tried not to blush.

“Morning,” he got out, on the second attempt. _On the plus side, the unexpected encounter is sending a much-needed adrenaline jolt to my brain._

“I do apologise for all your things being packed away, John,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “I had my doubts about your ‘death’ from the beginning, and I didn’t want Harriet doing anything too premature with them until it was all sorted out.”

“Oh. Um, well, thanks, Mycroft,” he managed.

“You are quite welcome; after all, you are practically one of the family. In fact, I dropped by to offer the use of the family physician; you have been very ill, and his data security is far superior to the NHS…”

Sherlock made a sound not far from a snort, albeit rather more elegant.

“No,” John refused quickly, before his flatmate could say anything terribly insulting. “Thanks, and everything, but no. It’s not like Moriarty doesn’t already know what’s wrong with me; and we’ve got some contacts who’ll put a rush on the blood tests.”

“As you wish.” He rose from John’s armchair and moved over to the kitchen to shake his hand. “In that case, I really should be getting back to the office; all this business has left me terribly behind, I’m afraid.” He glanced over to his brother. “You will look after him, _won’t_ you, Sherlock?” There was a definite note of command in his voice.

The younger Holmes shot his brother a look venomous enough to singe his eyebrows.

“Get out, Mycroft,” he all but snarled. “Or John’s bruises will be nothing to yours.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, rather theatrically. “Good luck with him, John; I do believe you’re going to need it,” he commented wryly, before leaving the flatmates in –comparative- peace.

“Sherlock, can you not try to be even a _little bit_ civil towards your brother?” John bit out, flicking the kettle back on; he felt the need for significantly more coffee. “I thought me and Harry were bad but you two make the Osbournes look normal.”

“Who?” He looked confused for an instant before dismissing it in favour of slagging off Mycroft. “I see no reason to be _civil_ to that overbearing insufferable overweight pillock who calls himself my brother.”

“He just got you off a murder charge!”

“And could very easily have got you killed in the process!”

“If it wasn’t for Mycroft you’d be in a prison cell and I’d be dead or stuck in Moriarty’s bloody dungeon for the rest of my life!”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. “If the worst had come to the worst, I could always have broken out.”

“And done what? Survived as a soldier of fortune in the Los Angeles underground?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I positively loathe California; the sun plays havoc with my complexion. Amsterdam would be my personal choice of safe haven; plenty of interesting murders and no one looks at the tourists too closely in case they’re doing something they don’t want to know about.”

“You didn’t even get that reference, did you? How can you possibly know Jim’ll Fix It but not Monty Python or the A-Team?”

“I always do my research before I take a private case; you know that.”

“ _Jimmy Saville_ owes you a favour?”

“There was an incident a few years ago with a rather unbalanced individual who’d always resented not getting an answer to his letters. Five hundred and fifty eight of them, to be exact.”

“Five hundred letters? To a kid’s tv show?”

“And later to its presenter. Apparently it was his life’s ambition to be the team mascot at a Sheffield United match; he became quite irrational about the lack of response. There were some highly imaginative death threats involved, as I recall.”

“Yes, well; anyone that obsessive about Jimmy Saville and Sheffield United’s got to have something wrong with them.” John yawned widely, scrubbing a hand through his tousled hair. “I’m starving; have we got any food, or will we have to stop somewhere when we go out?”

“Bag on the kitchen table,” Sherlock commented off-handedly. John shoved aside the plastic to reveal four pints of milk and a tin of baked beans.

_Milk and beans… he didn’t, surely_ …

“Did Mrs Hudson get this?” He asked.

“At this time in the morning? Don’t be dull, John; she’ll be wearing her carpet slippers until noon.”

“You mean to tell me that _you_ went shopping,” he said, astonished. “You actually, physically got up and went to buy food?”

“Yes,” his flatmate confirmed, as if it were something he did every day.

“Who are you and where’s the real Sherlock Holmes?” John asked incredulously.

“I said I’d get it; did you doubt my word?”

“Of course I bloody did; you never go shopping!

“And don’t expect me to go again; it was a thoroughly hideous experience.”

“Of course it is; why d’you think I always complain so much when you leave it all to me?”

“Well, it’s only fair, isn’t it? You eat far more than I do.”

“I eat like a _normal_ person, Sherlock; I don’t forget for days on end and then pass out from hypoglycaemia…”

“Oh, not that again; it was only the once; I don’t know why you keep on bringing it up.”

“Only the once that I _found_ you out cold on the carpet, you mean.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, shifting his weight off his weak right leg. “Oh, God; it’s too early to be having this argument with you; I need more coffee.”

“You think so? I was rather enjoying it.”

John looked from the bag of shopping to the faint, contented smile on his friend’s face… and couldn’t resist the grin that seemed to well up from his chest.

“Of course you were,” he managed, shaking his head in amusement. “Thank you, Sherlock, for getting the milk and the beans. I’m going for a shower and then after breakfast we’d better go and explain things to Lestrade.”

And isn’t _that_ going to be a fun conversation after last night…

“No; first, you’re going to Bart’s. I’ve set up an appointment for you with Mike Stamford; the police can wait until you’ve been checked over.”

After a regrettably short shower, two more coffees and a breakfast of beans on toast (made with bread borrowed from Mrs Hudson, since the two end slices lurking in their bread bin had gone well past the green stage and were now firmly in the grey and furry category. Sherlock’s genius apparently did not extend to meal planning) John limped carefully towards the door.

“Here,” said Sherlock, holding out his cane. “You obviously need it, despite your current stratospheric stress levels.”

“Well, like you said when we first met; my limp’s _partly_ psychosomatic.”

“Really. Another souvenir from your military service?”

“Broke my leg when I got shot. It’s never been quite right since; aches when it rains. All the muscle strain’s got it acting up again.”

Sherlock glanced out of the window at the grey, pervasive drizzle that represented one of London’s finer days. “Then we should get you to Bart’s before the weather gets any worse.” He swung his great heavy coat onto his thin frame and began to knot a scarf around his neck.

“You off out too?” Asked John, shrugging awkwardly into his jacket.

“Of course; I’m coming with you. There could be a wealth of clues in your physical condition,” he insisted.

The way he was hovering made John seriously doubt that was his true motivation. Sherlock was being unusually solicitous; between actually going shopping (something as close to a miracle as John was ever likely to experience) and now going with him to his medical checkup? It was positively surreal.

_If it were anyone else, I would say Sherlock is worried about me… but Sherlock’s probably never worried about anything or anyone in his life, so that’s out. Which means… he feels guilty. Moriarty abducted and injured me for being Sherlock’s friend; and now he feels responsible for my condition._

_It’s… rather touching, actually_.

True to his word, Sherlock went with John to the hospital and was waiting outside the treatment room when he emerged; although the file the detective had acquired to read in the meantime suggested he hadn’t been idle.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, those agile grey eyes scanning searchingly over every line of John’s face for a hint about what he was about to say. Almost… anxious…

“Clean bill of health,” John reassured him easily. “At least, until the blood tests come back. Here.” He passed Sherlock a bottle. “I had Mike take an extra sample for you; in case you want to check it for anything more exotic than the usual.”

“Excellent thinking, John,” he praised warmly, as if it were the best present he’d ever had. The detective held the vial up to the light, as if he could determine the blood’s chemical composition from its precise shade of red _. Then again, this is_ Sherlock _; he probably can, to a point._

“What’s that folder you’ve got?”

“Hmm? Oh, I hacked the personnel files for the IT department from the receptionist’s computer while she was on her coffee break and printed all the records on male staff employed in the last six months. No Jim Moriarty, but there is a James Moran who may bear further investigation. I’ll need a hair sample from you, too; I want to find out exactly what drugs they were giving you without interference from their metabolic half-life. But that will have to wait; Lestrade is likely to get a bit impatient if we keep him waiting much beyond noon.”

“Noon? It’s only just gone eleven; aren’t we going to see him now?”

“I thought we’d have an early lunch first; it could take a while. Isn’t that what normal people do if they’re going to be engaged for the afternoon?”

“Since when do _you_ care about normal?”

“ _I_ don’t,” Sherlock replied. “But I can’t imagine you are exactly looking forwards to the inevitable misunderstandings of New Scotland Yard’s finest…”

“Good idea,” John interrupted hurriedly. “Chinese or Indian?”

SHSHSHSHSHSH

Walking into Scotland Yard with an unusually attentive Sherlock at his side was… well, it reminded the former soldier very much of patrolling territory populated by hostile civilians.

Every police officer who saw them fell instantly silent, staring at the two men as if they couldn’t quite believe their eyes. They all looked shocked, but… speculative.

“Oh, God,” John said softly to Sherlock. “What the hell has Lestrade been telling people?”

“Does it matter?” he replied dismissively. “People talk, John; you’ve said so yourself. They’ll find something else to focus their tiny little minds on soon enough.”

“Last Tuesday wouldn’t be soon enough for me,” he muttered darkly, as a group of attractive young Community Support Officers began to giggle like schoolgirls as they passed.

Stepping into Lestrade’s cluttered little section of office space was even worse. Not only was the silence absolute as John’s skin crawled with the weight of thirty-odd eyes boring into him, but Lestrade immediately began to turn brick red, in an unpleasant contrast to Anderson’s sickly green. The pause was an uncomfortably long one.

Finally, Lestrade broke the oppressive silence by clearing his throat awkwardly. “John; Sherlock,” he managed, gruffly. “Went all right at the hospital, then?”

“No permanent damage,” John answered, fidgeting slightly with his cane under the continued stares.

“Good. That’s, um, good.” He cleared his throat again before attempting to return to a more professional approach. “I’ve reserved a couple of interview rooms to take your statements; I’m doing Sherlock and Donovan’ll take yours, John.”

Donovan shot an even more vile glare at Sherlock than usual and then turned on John with a curious mix of exasperation, pity and frank revulsion.

“So, you’re alive, then,” she stated, redundantly.

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, every syllable dripping with disdain.

“And back with your murdering psychopath boyfriend…”

“Sherlock is _not_ a murderer, Donovan!” John interrupted angrily. “As you’d know if you’d actually bothered to _look_ at the evidence before assuming he’s guilty. And he’s not my boyfriend either,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Her eyebrows raised. “That’s not what the DI said, after he walked in on your little reunion last night.” Her features twisted in disgust. “He saw you two snogging.”

Sherlock bristled. “That is the most… pedestrian, infantile, idiotic interpretation of the situation! Five years of instruction in my methods, Lestrade; and that’s _still_ the best you could come up with? Mrs Hudson could do better!”

“Well, excuse me if I didn’t want to explain your sex life to this lot!” He defended hotly, still red in the face. “Half of them already think I should be in therapy; and I’m starting to agree with them.”

Sherlock rounded on the police officer fiercely. “Just because John happened to be on top when we fell off the sofa..!”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, his parade ground bark rising to the surface with his temper. “Shut it! I have had enough of this and you’re only making things worse.” _And all these police officers now think we were doing something a lot kinkier than kissing; does no one just have pillow fights any more?_

The consulting detective looked a touch uncertain. “Is this one of those ‘not good’ situations?”

“It will be if I have to give you that punching lesson early,” John threatened darkly. “For the record,” he announced loudly, irritation clear in his voice. “I have a _girlfriend_ , Sherlock and I are _not_ a couple, and Lestrade just _happened_ to walk in after Sherlock pulled me off the sofa for hitting him with a cushion. Clear?”

He glared around at the slightly stunned police officers, daring any of them to comment. Faced with an angry Watson, none did.

“Good. Now, Donovan, statement; and no smart comments or I won’t stop Sherlock the next time he goes off on one about Anderson.” He turned to point an accusing finger at his flatmate. “You, help Lestrade; and don’t give him any trouble or I’ll put absolutely _everything_ you did this morning on my blog for the world to read.”

_And we’ll see how the police react to reading about their favourite ‘sociopath’ taking a trip to Tesco at the crack of dawn to buy milk and beans to make his friend smile_ … _and then following me to the hospital… and buying me lunch before he brought me here to give a statement about my kidnapping because I’ve lost weight since I was poisoned…_

“Blackmail, John?” Sherlock actually sounded impressed. “In front of half of Scotland Yard?”

“Bloody right,” he confirmed sharply. “And there isn’t a jury in the world who’d convict me for it. The interview rooms are this way, aren’t they, Donovan? Come on then; let’s get this over with.” He limped determinedly away, leaving Sally to trail in his wake while the rest of them simply stared after him.

“Well? You heard the good Doctor,” he heard Sherlock say from behind him. “Tell me how far you’ve got…”


	16. Epilogue III: Psychosomatic

# Epilogue III: Psychosomatic

 

Sherlock unearthed John’s phone charger after a mere three minutes of scrabbling through the neatly packed boxes of his possessions. Quickly but thoroughly, he removed the cover and checked for bugs, GPS trackers and booby traps before finally plugging the mobile in and entering the pin number.

_Harry’s date of birth; so unoriginal. At least his laptop passwords have got a lot more difficult to guess these days; sometimes it takes me three or even four tries._ He tapped quickly to the sent messages folder and scrolled down.

_Moriarty didn’t even delete them… he wanted John to read these texts, to know exactly the price I was prepared to pay for his life. He only depleted the battery to prevent John from phoning me and interrupting our ‘date’._

_Message sent to: Sherlock 10:38_

**Research all the John Watsons in London and text me the address of the one most similar to yours. M**

_There were a surprising number; Watson is not an uncommon surname. And I did have to research them all; I didn’t dare do otherwise._

_Professor John Watson, forty two. Married, one son aged fourteen. Lecturer in mammalian biology at Imperial College. Five foot eight, blue eyes, greying sandy hair, lots of laughter lines… and something indefinably John-ish, in the way he smiled in his Facebook photos. I could have chosen any Watson in London, but I picked him to be the victim._

_My victim._

Message sent to: Sherlock 20:45

**Very good, Sherlock. The study, midnight. M.**

_The study could only mean one place… mirroring my request to meet at the pool, where we both began, with the place our current game started. Lauriston Gardens was also the very first crime scene I shared with John. ‘A Study in Pink’ indeed. ‘The Case of the Serial Suicides,’ or ‘An Education in the Deductive Process,’ would have been far more accurate titles for John’s blog._

_It was a terribly elegant setup, though; I must give him that. The other Watson positioned exactly as Jennifer Wilson was, draped with a cashmere-angora blend throw in exactly the same frankly alarming shade of pink she was wearing when she died. The blowtorch, already lit and placed conspicuously so I could not fail to grasp its purpose._

_The shiny new 42” TV attached to a mould spotted wall, showing security footage of my John sleeping peacefully in Moriarty’s cell. Utterly vulnerable to the identical blowtorch on the table by his bed._

Message sent to: Sherlock 00:02

**John Watson will have his heart burned out in the next few minutes. Which one is up to you. M**

_There was really only one logical decision I could make._

_The man had been poisoned before I arrived; the botulinum toxin was already affecting his breathing. He would have been dead before an ambulance got there regardless of what I did. My John had a chance of life; he was receiving treatment, as a valuable hostage… Had I refused, they both would have died._

_I did what I could; compression of the carotid artery to render him unconscious, so he wouldn’t feel anything… wouldn’t have to smell his flesh burning as it melted._

_He was put in that situation because I told Moriarty he reminded me of my John. His face, and that smell, will remain etched into my mind for the rest of my life._

_My own skin seemed to split and char in sympathy as I… I, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, applied the flame to his chest._

_Does it really make a difference, if you kill a man who was dying anyway? Did it make John feel better, when he found out the taxi driver he killed had an aneurysm? I don’t know if the other Watson was a_ ‘nice man’ _. My research didn’t turn up anything particularly indicative of criminal activity; but that doesn’t mean he was a saint. Perhaps he just never got caught._

_It was not the first time I have deliberately tortured another human being. I pressed all my weight onto the cabbie’s bullet wound to make him give me Moriarty’s name and I never felt even the slightest guilt about it. Why is this so different? Just because I was forced to do it, although it served no purpose except to satisfy Moriarty’s twisted sense of humour? Because the other Watson was an innocent man? Because it could so easily have been my John, my friend, in his place?_

_Or was it because I’ve never killed anyone before?_

Message sent to: Sherlock 00:23

**Well done, my dear. We both knew you had it in you. Now run along home so I can clean up the mess. M**

_The mess was considerable, I must grant him that. His minions did an admirable job of moving the body to the pool site without detection and then making it look like the scene of the crime. They even successfully concealed the time of death; the police thought he died a good three hours later. Not good enough work to fool me, of course; but then, I was there._

_I had barely walked through my own front door when the next text came in_.

Message sent to: Sherlock 01:34

**Confess to the next murder Lestrade phones you about. M**

_I had already committed the crime, leaving plentiful evidence of my guilt. It was not difficult to persuade Lestrade to arrest me, despite his shock._

_I wondered if this was Moriarty’s idea of burning out my heart; by destroying my hard-won reputation and standing with the police, blackmailing me into committing a murder so brutally clumsy and inelegant. Having me sent to prison to force me into the blackest pits of boredom until my brain totally rotted into that of a gibbering madman._

_But no. Doubtless, that is what he wanted me to think; to anticipate with dread… until Mycroft’s unwanted intervention so altered the situation._

_I need someone to tell me that I acted correctly. But the only individual I trust to be honest, right and not turn me in to the police is John himself; and I can’t tell him. I just can’t._

_He has so much faith in me. No one has ever believed in me like he does before; not even Mummy. Lestrade tries; but he’s too restrained by the letter of the law to approve of all my activities. John, as a doctor, understands that procedures can get people killed; and as a soldier, he also knows that sometimes circumstances demand rules are broken._

_Would he understand, if I explained it to him? Would he hate me? Hit me? Leave me, as he threatened not ten minutes ago?_

_I don’t dare risk losing him, not now, when I’ve just got him back. When I’ve had a taste of life alone again._

_It is so illogical. I spent over three decades of my life without him, relatively content; but now the prospect of John Watson not being there any more is… distinctly unpleasant. It causes a sort of cold tightness in the region of my liver; I suspect I am developing some kind of psychosomatic disorder not unlike his limp. Perhaps they’re contagious?_

_There is also the threat of Moriarty to deal with. It doesn’t matter where John is; he will still be vulnerable to a criminal of that calibre. And if he is far away from me, I will not be able to protect him._

_Yes. That is why he cannot be told. If he should react badly, the danger he is in will increase significantly. It would be irresponsible of me to endanger John like that._

Sherlock deleted the texts firmly, using a little trick he’d had one of his sources teach him to prevent even Mycroft’s people from recovering the data. He reached for his laptop, to finally resume the process of his search… and hesitated.

_Too quiet… should be movement, at least; John takes at least six minutes to undress because his army habits make him obsessively fold things; plus an unfamiliar bed, he’ll need to get comfortable_ …

He left the computer starting up and moved silently to his bedroom door, prising it open to peer inside without a sound.

_I am_ not _checking up on him; I am simply concerned at the change in routine. He could have stopped breathing, for all I know; it would be typical of Moriarty to administer another slow-acting poison before John’s release_ …

As his eyes adjusted to the change in light level, Sherlock observed the reason for the silence. John, usually the consummate military man, had forgone his nightly rituals and simply dropped his clothes where they fell before crawling into bed. He was lying on his right side, breathing heavy, deep and even as he slept the sleep of the thoroughly exhausted.

_Why is it that the sight of John sleeping should be so compelling? I have a vast amount of highly interesting work to do, and yet I am standing here, observing the pattern of his breathing like an anxious parent. He is at home with me, and entirely safe. There is absolutely no cause for concern._

John stirred, turning over onto his back. Sherlock smiled as he began to snore softly.

_Well, I shall certainly know if he stops breathing_ now _. I must see to it that John eats more; he’s lost so much weight that I can trace every contour of his skull beneath the flesh. He will need to gain at least a stone in order to return to his usual strength; I already have one human skull in my living room. I do not need another to look at_.

Sherlock began to plot various strategies for this as he left the room, leaving his bedroom door open so he could still hear the reassuringly human sound of his friend’s gentle snoring as he settled himself comfortably on the sofa.

Even as his fingers began to fly over the laptop’s keyboard, pulling up the ownership records of the restaurant he’d just visited in order to investigate the ‘little murder’ Moriarty had arranged for him, the device chimed to alert him of a new email.

**The lobster was delicious, darling. We really must do this again soon… Love, Jim xxx**

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. His lips curled, ever so slightly, as he read it.

_Ready when you are, Moriarty. Unpleasant as most of this has been, now that you have removed John from the equation there is nothing that matters more than the Game._

_And this time, I am the hunter; and you,_ my dear _, are the prey._

**Author's Note:**

> The blinking thing I know a lot of people think is an SOS, but when I looked up the symptoms of botulinum poisoning on Wikipedia it does say that heavy eyelids is one of the first signs. It fitted pretty neatly into this idea, especially with Watson’s near collapse after Sherlock takes the vest off him. If the source isn’t accurate… well, never mind. I thought it was an interesting scenario.


End file.
